Of Wizard Detectives and Pirate Doctors
by Hanna-NotMontana
Summary: Sherlock AU set in Hogwarts. Follows Johnlocks lives through the years at Hogwarts and their adventures there; joy and pain, werewolves, dementors, first loves, Triwizard Tournaments and true love. Rated T for violence and light male/male action later on.
1. Prologue

_Hi :)_  
_For story purposes, they're all the same age (besides Mycroft, who's obviously older). Also, the characters might be a bit out-of-character (:D) but this is AU and I do what I want. I try to stick to their characters, though._  
_Enjoy and leave reviews if you want to - I'd be delighted :)_  
_Love, __Hanna_  
_**DISCLAIMER:** Hogwarts and the whole wizarding world belong to JKR of course (bless you!) and Sherlock and all the other characters to the BBC. I own not a single character and I make no profit of this story. It's solely for entertainment._

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_**CHINESE TRANSLATION** AVAILABLE HERE htt【p:/【 .c【om/p/24329【05429 （delete the brackets） THANKS TO CHRISFORRENT!_

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The first time John Watson met Sherlock Holmes, it was five years too early. It was a nice day, and John's mother had decided to treat her kids to something special, so they took a train right into the heart of London to spend the day there.

Unaware of the Watsons' plans, Mrs. Holmes had also decided to take a train to Central London, taking her two sons with her. Usually, they would've taken the, well, _usual way_, but Sherlock had a tendency to end up somewhere else every single time – everyone thought he was just too young to get it right, but his mother had the feeling he did it on purpose, just to get a look at strange places – and she didn't like going by car. It was just so… ordinary. So train it was. Admittedly, not less ordinary, but at least Sherlock would stay by her side and was entertained by the other people on the train. Mycroft was easier to handle, he was a calm child, sometimes a bit too calm, but he knew how to behave and seeing as she had a lot of trouble with her younger son, she was grateful for her older son's attitude.

When Mrs. Holmes had finally managed to find seats for her boys and herself on the quite crowded train, she allowed herself a small sigh before sitting down, Mycroft across her and Sherlock next to her. With a jerk, the train started moving and someone chose that exact moment to push open the door of their compartment and she looked up, just like Sherlock did.

"Mum! Here's room for us!" A small blond boy called out, grinning excitedly back down the aisle and then back into their compartment. Then, a woman appeared behind him, a girl next to her, and she smiled into the compartment at Mrs. Holmes. "Hi, sorry, but are these seats taken?"

Mrs. Holmes smiled back and made a gesture indicating they should sit down.

"Thanks!" The strange woman breathed out and gently pushed the boy inside before following. The boy looked at Mycroft's rather bored face for a moment, before giving Sherlock a small smile and climbing into the seat next to him.

"Hi! I'm John!"

Sherlock just stared at him, until his mother nudged him and then said in an apologizing voice. "I'm sorry, he sometimes doesn't speak all day. Then, on other days, he barely stops. This is Sherlock, Mycroft-" she nodded over to her older son, "and I'm Cassiopeia Holmes." Looking at the woman now sitting next to Mycroft, she added "Most people just call me Cassy," with a smile. Of course, no one ever called her Cassy and she sincerely hoped Sherlock would stay quiet about it, but he seemed transfixed by the blonde's son, who stared back, just the tiniest bit uneasy.

"Nice to meet you!" The blonde smiled. "I'm Mary, this is Harriet," she pointed to the girl next to her, "and that's obviously John."

And that's all conversation the women had besides exchanging the usual pleasantries like 'Where are you going' and so on. Harriet and Mycroft were really quiet, too, but Sherlock and John actually talked to each other. Well, at first, it was just John who did the talking.

"Sherlock? That's a weird name." Sherlock never reacted and John thought he maybe had insulted the other boy and before he could get a scolding by his mum, he quickly added: "I like it, though." Still no reply, but John thought maybe Sherlock's eyes, weirdly grey-silverish, lost a bit of their hardness. "How old are you? I'm five, but I'll be six soon!" Sherlock still didn't reply, until his mother nudged him again and he actually sighed, sighed like usually only grown-ups did. "I'm five, too."

It's the first time John heard Sherlock's voice and he instantly liked it. For the next ten minutes, he kept asking questions and told Sherlock random things, but the other boy never did so much as answer with yes or no. Finally, when John was running out of topics to talk about – he's five, after all – he thought of one last thing to ask. "What do you want to be when you're older? I wanna be a doctor!"

Harriet snorted from her seat next to their mother and John pouted before simply grabbing Sherlock's wrist and pulling, the other boy following with a surprised look on his face. But he _was_following. They took the seat that was furthest away from their families, a bit crunched up together in that small space, but John's eyes were sparkling now and Sherlock decided he liked the small blond. "So, I wanna be a doctor, but Harry makes fun of me for it," John whispered, leaning in a bit and one of Sherlock's dark curls touched his forehead, soft and warm. "What do you want to be?" John didn't even seem to care about their closeness, he just eyed Harry and Mycroft carefully before adding softly. "I won't make fun of you. I promise."

Sherlock contemplated – as much as a five year old could – for a while before whispering back: "I want to be a pirate."

John's eyes widened and for a moment Sherlock thought the blond was going to laugh, but then his reply came. "That… is… awesome!"

And just like that, they were engrossed in a conversation about the probability of getting a pirate ship and sailing it down the Thames.

When they reached King's Cross, both families said goodbye and the Holmes' walked away at a fast pace, not giving Sherlock or John time to exchange addresses or anything, but Sherlock found himself staring back at John's slowly disappearing figure in the crowd.

The Watsons' spent a great day in the city and when John was back in his bed and tucked in, he sleepily thought of the strange boy with the silver eyes and wondered if he was going to see him again, before he finally fell asleep.

The Holmes' had a quite successful day, too. After all, it was the first day they entered Diagon Alley, the three of them. Because in September, Mycroft would start his first year at Hogwarts.

In the evening of that day, both women, Mary and Cassiopeia, heard about a strange incident that happened while they were busy in London, but while Mary didn't think anything of it, Cassiopeia smiled. Apparently the Thames had turned bright green for just a while before returning back to its natural colour. And apparently, that had happened, while Sherlock and John had discussed their pirate lives (John could always be a pirate doctor) – of course she had heard every word of their conversation. And the changing colour of the Thames was clearly a sign. _Sherlock was a wizard, too._

To be honest, she and her husband had been wondering for quite a while if Sherlock was a squib, but today had proven their worries wrong. And from the extent of the magic, Sherlock would be doing great things when he was old enough.

X

The day the letter arrived, the Holmes' acknowledged it with a nod – it really was no surprise – and then took Sherlock to Diagon Alley where they bought all the things he would need and he was allowed to pick out a pet. Cassiopeia had already predicted he would not pick an owl – she knew he wouldn't write home if he didn't have to – and she was proven right when he left the shop with a tiny black kitten with bright blue eyes.

" It's an Southamerican Sabrecat. I'm going to train it. It's just as smart as any owl and can deliver messages just as well. Besides, it's smart and hunts for itself." Sherlock explained and Cassiopeia saw why he chose the cat: it was a predator, strong and wild, an ancient race and capable of surviving a lot – an important trait if it was going to live with Sherlock.

"Do you have a name for it?"

Sherlock nonchalantly flipped the kitten over – it hissed and tried to scratch him – and held it down, examining it quickly. Other 11-year-olds probably didn't even know where and what to look for but he found out the kittens gender quickly and after thinking for a moment, he declared: "Since it's a girl, I'm going to call it-her Auriga."

"After the waggoner-constellation?"

"Yes. I like to think that she brings death to so many little creatures she's going to hunt in her life, like a waggoner carrying them to their final destination."

"You're morbid," Mycroft told him, eyeing the cat with a bored expression.

"No one asked for your opinion," Sherlock retorted, but before the situation could escalate, Cassiopeia shoved their boys into Madame Malkin's to get their cloaks fitted. Auriga meowed annoyed in her cage, obviously expressing what her new owner felt.

…

The day the letter arrived at the _Watsons'_household, no one was prepared for it. Of course the letter didn't arrive with an owl, but with a nicely dressed woman who introduced herself as Professor Amina Smith, teacher for Muggle Studies at Hogwarts School Of Witchcraft and Wizardry. That was when Mary and James Watson, as well as John, started to think that this was not going to be an ordinary day.

To make it short, in the end, they believed Professor Smith and when John and his parents first discovered Diagon Alley, John really started to believe that this was the day his whole life was going to change. He chose a wand – no, _the wand chose him_ – and he bought things like a cauldron, newt eyes and cloaks, and, since Professor Smith had explained them that in the wizard world owls carried the mail, he chose a little owl and chose to call it Athena, after its Latin name. He was not sure how he felt about having a pet owl, especially not after it pinched his ear, but he supposed he could live with it, seeing as it at least didn't bite off his ear _completely_.

That night, he heard Harry and his parents fight, sometimes his own name fell, and then he heard Harry stomping up the stairs and locking herself into her room; shortly after, her sobbing sounded through the thin walls but he didn't dare to go over to her, he just didn't want to aggravate her.

He fell asleep with his hand curled around his new wand.

X

"_OH MY GOD I'M GOING TO DIE!"_were the exact thoughts that crossed John's mind when he raced towards a solid wall of bricks, the impact seconds away – and then he was through, not smashed, not bleeding, but standing at some tracks next to a giant train and he was alive and he couldn't believe it.

There were kids EVERYWHERE, some wearing their cloaks already, some in normal clothes, some with their parents, some with friends. Suddenly, he felt really nervous. He knew no-one here and he was about to take a train to a school somewhere not on any map and he was not going to see his parents until Christmas and-

"Relax, honey." The voice of his mother startled him, and he was surprised she was not half as shocked by the experience of walking through a brick wall as he was. Also, she seemed to be a mind reader now. _Great, maybe she should go to this school and I should just stay here and-  
_  
"John, you worry too much. I can see it in your face. Now, c'mere, give me a hug and then go and find a seat in that train." She opened her arms a bit and he slowly reached out to hug her. They were both not very tall, but still, she's a bit taller and lowered her head, whispering in his ear: "You're such a good boy, I'm sure you'll do great. And you're going to find new friends there soon. Just write me whenever you need me – and Christmas will be here sooner than you think."

John's arms closed a bit tighter around his mum and then he stepped back, grinning at her. "Love you, mum!"

She smiled. "Love you, too – now go and get a seat!"

Her voice was already drowned by a whistle signalizing for everyone to get on the train and with one last look, John grabbed his trunk and the cage with Athena before taking a deep breath.

Now, finally, the prospect of an adventure overshadowed the nagging feeling in his stomach and he grinned a bit wider before manhandling the trunk inside the train and starting his journey down the aisle, looking for a place to sit and new friends.

…

"I'm off to talk to the other Prefect's," Mycroft said, already in the door, but Sherlock didn't even look up, so the elder Holmes left with a shake off his head.

Sherlock stared out of the window, at the crowd. Their mother was long gone, she had dropped them here, Mycroft had kissed her cheek before wandering off to find a department, and Sherlock had survived a hug; Cassiopeia had whispered: "You'll be a great wizard someday, Sherlock. Your father and I – we're both very proud of you. Just try and fit in a bit, will you?"

Sherlock had replied nothing but a "Goodbye, mummy," before grabbing his trunk and whistling for Auriga. He had taught the cat to follow his whistle within a few days and now she came whenever he wanted her to, although she didn't listen to anyone else. Cassiopeia made sure Sherlock actually went on the train and waited until she saw Mycroft nodding at her from a window a bit down the train before turning her back and leaving.

Of course he despised the fact that he had to sit with Mycroft, but Sherlock knew his brother would spent a great amount of travelling time with the other prefects, so it wasn't too bad. The train suddenly jerked and Sherlock was disturbed in his thoughts. Auriga meowed and his hand moved to his lap where she lay, to scratch her behind her ears, when the door of his compartment was pushed open and a small blond boy smiled at him before calling down the aisle: "I think there's room in here!" before returning to look back at Sherlock. "Hi, I'm John! Is there room for me and two more?"

Sherlock could only do so much as nod, while his brain was already running amok inside his head at the prospect of the boy in the doorframe.

"Great, thanks man!" John said and groaned as he tried to pull his trunk in and hauling it up into the luggage rack. While he was still at it, two boys stepped into the compartment, too, and the thinner one clapped John's back, declaring: "You're awesome!" before struggling with his own trunk. Finally, the boys were done with their luggage and fell into the empty seats, John next to Sherlock and the other two on the opposite.

John's heavy breathing slowly became more regular and with a stretch, he sat more upright before turning to look at Sherlock again.

"Hi again. As I said, I'm John, and this is Mike-" he nodded towards the chubby boy, "-and Greg." The thinner boy nodded and gave Sherlock a small smile.

Sherlock was still busy with thinking, he automatically nodded at the other boys' names, but his mind was far away. Right next to him sat John, the boy he met on a train five years ago, the day they went shopping, the day after Mycroft got his Hogwarts letter. John, who wanted to become a doctor, and then, after Sherlock had told him he wanted to be a pirate, all to readily wanted to join him, becoming a pirate-doctor. He never spent much of a thought on the boy again after that day, the boy _he_thought was a Muggle, but now, seeing him again, in almost the same way he stumbled into Sherlock's life five years ago, Sherlock couldn't help but wonder why he hadn't deleted John. Not only he hadn't deleted John over the years like he had deleted every single other unimportant encounter, no, he could remember the whole time he spent with the blond up to the smallest detail.

So when he noticed John looked at him expectantly and his brain told him 'He's waiting for you to introduce yourself', he wasn't sure what reaction he hoped for when he declared: "I'm Sherlock Holmes."

For a moment, John's eyes furrowed. "Sherlock?... That's a weird name-"

He wasn't sure why he couldn't control his face better, but he felt it fall at that, and John quickly rambled, having noticed Sherlock's changing expression: "I don't mean it as an insult, really. I like your name! It just seems kind of… familiar…" John's eyes furrowed a bit more before he shook his head and the smile was back on.

"Anyways, is this your first year, too?"

Sherlock only nodded, absently petting Auriga again.

"You're not much of a talker, huh?" John cocked his head a bit. "Well, it's good to know some other new students. I met Mike and Greg on the aisle, they're first years, too."

"I think basically everyone can tell that by the way you look around unsure of where to go and what to do, and from the smudges of lipstick on both your cheeks," Sherlock replied, eyes locking on the apparent red smudges on Mike's and Greg's cheek. "While your mothers probably would kiss you even if you weren't first years, it wouldn't be that much and since neither of you has hit puberty, it is quite clear that you have to be part of the younger students. Now, I can see the letter poking out of your backpocket-" Mike reached around himself and pulls out the letter as if he's never seen it before, "-indicating that you were lost and not sure if you had everything you needed, hence you packed the letter to be able to check your details."

"How the bloody hell did you notice all that?" Greg asked; face surprised and rubbing at the red smudge on his face absently.

"I observed."

"That… is amazing!" John declared and smiled at Sherlock. "You're really smart!"

And Sherlock couldn't help but smile back. "Yes."

At that, John snorted. "And so modest!"

For a moment, silence fell, and then, slowly, a giggle formed in John's and Sherlock's throats until it broke free in a hearty laughter, the boys shaking while Greg and Mike exchanged looks of pure confusion and Auriga hissed when she fell of Sherlock's lap due to the boys laughter.

After that, the mood was much better and, while still being quite quiet, Sherlock participated in their conversation. They exchanged stories about how they got their letters when a witch with a trolley full of sweets came past their compartment and they all put their money together to buy a bit of everything.

"Mmh, by the way, who's sitting over there?" John asked, mouth full of Cauldron Cake, nodding over to the vacated seat where only a coat indicated Mycroft's former presence.

"My brother, Mycroft. He's in year six now."

"Mycroft? Your names are actually Sherlock and Mycroft?" John could hardly suppress laughter and Sherlock could only wonder why he didn't feel the slightest bit insulted at John's comment.

"Wizards usually have extraordinary names," Mike explained, trying to grab a Chocolate Frog that was close to escaping. "It's… their thing, I guess."

John still tried to not wonder about the moving Chocolate Frogs – he had had a minor heart attack when he opened a package and one jumped right into his face – and actually thought about what Mike had explained.

"But I thought you're from a wizard family, too?"

Mike coloured a deep scarlet. "Well, my dad's a wizard, my mum's a Muggle, but when they married, she got her will and he took her last name. She also decided on my first name… that makes me Mike Stamford."

Greg grinned and he and John shared a look, saying 'Thank-God-for-Muggle-Parents'. After that small lesson in wizard-name, they made their way through their pile of sweets, John, Mike and Greg having a great time trying to figure out which were the… _edible_Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans from those which tasted just plain horrible, but the only one who was right every time was Sherlock, resulting in John pulling the weirdest faces at dirty-feet-, earth- and sprouts-flavoured beans while Sherlock managed to chose strawberry, peanut butter and chocolate.

As the sky began to darken and the lights went on, their conversation topic turned to their arrival at Hogwarts.

"What do you think, what houses will you get sorted in?" Mike asked, and then, realizing Greg and John were muggle-born, he added. "You know about the houses, don't you?"

John nodded, he had read in one of his schoolbooks about the fact that there were four houses, a bit like teams, and you got sorted into them in your first year. "There's… Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin, right?"

Mike nodded. "I'd love to be a Gryffindor, but my dad and granddad were both in Hufflepuff. Maybe that takes it away… How about you, Sherlock?"

"My whole family got sorted into Slytherin, but a few exceptions. I don't see a special appeal in any of the houses. Slytherin would be as good as any other house, I suppose."

"Voldemort was in Slytherin, right?" Mike said, in a hushed voice and even Greg and John knew why. Of course the happenings had been before their time, but after Voldemort and his Death Eaters had attacked everyone, Muggle _and_Wizard, it was a name you didn't simply forget. Also, they'd both read in their books about him.

"Yes, but so was Severus Snape and I understand he played an important role in the downfall of Voldemort," Sherlock argued. "Besides, Mycroft is in Slytherin, too, and I see no tendencies towards 'the Evil', maybe besides an unhealthy relationship towards cake and pastries – he'd probably kill for _that_." Sherlock actually snickered at that, something very uncharacteristically for him, but it made John smile nonetheless.

A piercing screech interrupted them seconds later and both John's and Sherlock's faces shot up towards the ceiling, where they witnessed how Auriga tried to get to Athena in her cage, sending the owl in distress and causing her to screech like that.

One sharp whistle of Sherlock was all it took to get the black cat off the bird and the feline gracefully climbed back down from the luggage rack before curling up in Sherlock's lap again. Athena slowly calmed down again at the prospect of the predator gone while John eyed the black cat suspiciously.

"Is your cat usually that aggressive?"

Sherlock scratched Auriga behind her ears and she purred, while he gave John a disapproving look. "Auriga is a Southamerican Sabrecat. Of course she's always trying to hunt. It's what she's _born_ to do."

"And they let you keep that as a pet?!" John was horrified, especially when he eyed the cat closer and discovered that there were two fangs poking out just the slightest bit over her closed mouth. _Sabre_cat. Then, the cat – Auriga, John remembered – opened one eye and gave John a look that was so much alike Sherlock's usual disapproving ones he actually had to grin. "I see why they let you keep it. You suit each other."

Sherlock tried to look dignified while John, Greg and Mike cracked up completely.

X

The ride over the lake was ghastly, to say the least, and John more than once feared for his life, seeing as it started to rain, the tiny boats rocked heavily and he thought he glimpsed something like a giant tentacle break through the surface. It didn't help that he was in a boat with three strangers and could only exchange glances with Greg and Mike in a boat to his left and Sherlock, several boats away, who just looked rather bored, as if he didn't even notice all the possible dangers around them.

Finally, the frightened group of First Year's was all sorted out and waiting in front of a big door for Professor Smith, who not only seemed to be responsible for Muggle Studies, but also for the Sorting Ceremony. John glanced around nervously and, to his slight relief, most of the other students looked just as horrified as he felt. Only Sherlock seemed to be at ease, standing at the edge of the group, bored expression on his face, but when he noticed John's eyes on him, one of the corners of his mouth turned up the slightest bit.

And suddenly, the doors flew open and Professor Smith appeared, telling them to follow her into the hall.

The sight was incredible. Hundreds of students were sitting at four large tables, colourful banners above their heads, showing off the different houses. Floating candles lit up the hall and John felt all the strange eyes on him and the other new students as they walked down the long aisle towards a small stool with what looked like a really worn out hat.

_The Sorting Hat, _a voice in John's mind whispered and he remembered having read about it.

Their group came to a halt and Professor Smith called up the first student – "Abbott, Jennifer!" – and the girl, visibly shaking stepped forward and took the hat in her hands, fingers trembling. She nearly slid of the stool when she sat down and then the hat went over her forehead and nearly her eyes, her fingers tightening their grip around the edge of the stool until the knuckles turned white. And suddenly, a tear appeared along the brim of the hat and the item called out: "Hufflepuff, it is!" and the girl hurried to get the hat off her head and then made her way over to the table where the loudest cheering students sat. John saw how they clapped her back and leaned over to welcome her and suddenly, he wasn't nervous anymore. He was sure that wherever he would be sorted in, he would fit, and he would be happy there.

Professor Smith went on and soon, she had reached the 'H' and called "Holmes, Sherlock!"

John watched as the slightly taller boy strode towards the stool, not slowing down until he reached it, then he grabbed the hat and planted it on his curls, an impatient look on his face. The crowd went silent again, waiting for the hat to decide, but the magical item took it's time. Sherlock's expression went from impatient to emotionless and then, after a good two minutes, he rolled his eyes and said loud enough for everyone to hear: "I'm going to sort myself then!" A gasp went to the crowd but this was the moment, when the hat spoke, first a bit quieter to Sherlock and the other first years to hear: "You already did." And then loud, for the crowd: "Slytherin for Mr. Holmes, it is!"

The Slytherins clapped, as did the other tables, but there was a feeling of uncertainty to it.

Right after Sherlock, a small girl with mouse brown hair was called – "Hooper, Molly!" and she was sorted into Ravenclaw fairly quickly. John watched as "Lestrade, Gregory" was sorted into Gryffindor, a pale boy with dark hair called "Moriarty, James" became Slytherin, too, then a pretty girl called "Sawyer, Sarah" became a Ravenclaw and then "Stamford, Michael" Gryffindor again. It was only just now that John realized he was the last one to be called up front and by now he wasn't so sure where he wanted to be sorted anymore.

He still didn't care about the reputation of the houses, but somehow, Hufflepuff seemed less appealing because he didn't have any friends there, same went for Ravenclaw. Well, of course he couldn't be sure if he actually was friends with Sherlock, Greg and Mike, but at least he _knew_them.

His time was up, though, and Professor Smith's voice startled him from his thoughts. "And last but not least: Watson, John."

John slowly walked up to the stool and grabbed the old, battered head, feeling the warmth of it before sitting down on the stool and putting the hat on. Instantly, he was surrounded by darkness as it slipped over his eyes and then he heard a small voice inside his head.

_"I see bravery, yes, and also intelligence. You're loyal beyond compare and you work hard for the things you want to achieve. You'd fit in every house."_

_"Are you the… Sorting Hat – in my head?! What do you mean, I'd fit in every house?"_

_"What I said. You get to chose, John. Where do you want to go? You want to be with your friends, right? So, Slytherin or Gryffindor, it is."_

_"Why did you put Sherlock into Slytherin?"_

_"Ah-ah. That's not allowed. You can't ask about others. Make your choice based on your own thoughts and wishes."_

John was silent for a little while. Then he made his decision.

_"Are you sure? Gryffindor is a good choice, great times await you there. But the greater the time, the greater the fall, you realize that?"_

_"I know Sherlock doesn't need me. He is tough."_

_"So you're trying to protect your other friends? I see, a lion true to the heart. Or a… pirate? In that case, it's going to be…_GRYFFINDOR!"

The hat belted out the last words, roaring came from the table to John's very left - and just like that, John Watson had been sorted into Gryffindor.

He found Sherlock's face over the sea of faces between them and they exchanged a small smile, when John remembered the Sorting Hat's last words. _Pirate. _

_PIRATE. _

_SHERLOCK HOLMES._


	2. First Year - Part I

John never got the chance to talk to Sherlock that evening. He still couldn't quite believe that Sherlock was the same boy he'd met years ago on a train ride to London, a train ride he'd completely forgotten about until now. Although – that was not entirely true. He'd sometimes thought of the boy with the weird eyes and the curls, but then so many exciting things had happened – going to school, meeting new friends etc – and he had just forgotten. And now it looked like he would have to wait for another while until he could share this with Sherlock. He wondered if the other boy remembered that they'd met before – but seeing how smart he was, John thought he maybe knew all along. _Then why didn't he say something?_

He was startled from his thoughts, though, when the Headmistress stood and introduced herself as Professor Minerva McGonagall before – somewhat unwillingly, how John thought – made room for the choir and everyone started to sing something that appeared to be the school's hymn, but everyone basically sang whatever they wanted and at whatever pace and melody they thought would fit. It was one of the weirdest experiences in John's life up until now.

The lyrics were floating over the choir so even the First Years could join in – although almost no one did – while the others sang very enthusiastically. John glanced at Sherlock and found him sitting there with a bewildered expression as even the usually so uptight Slytherins (at least, that was the impression they'd made on John) sang along to the hymn.

John let his gaze some more and when he leaned back he gasped and nudged Greg, who was sitting next to him. "Did you see the ceiling?!"

Greg stared at him irritated. "Didn't you notice before?!"

_Admittedly, no, he didn't._ John had been so busy taking in everything on eye-level and completely forgot to look up – and now he was greeted with no ceiling, but the night sky, lit up by stars and making him feel even smaller than he was.

"It's enchanted to be that way," Mike told them, when the last lyrics of the hymn were sung.

John still found it hard to look away, but then Professor McGonagall stood again and told them to enjoy their meal – which was quite hard, considering that the tables were empty besides some plates and cutlery. But suddenly, on command, food appeared and John realized how hungry he was, despite all the sweets he'd had on the train before. He told himself that he was always hungry because he was a growing boy, but the fact that he never grew kind of contradicted that. He dug in nevertheless and soon he, Mike and Greg were busy shoveling food in their mouths and getting to know the others.

Just when he thought he couldn't possibly eat more, desserts appeared and he managed three portions of chocolate pudding before nearly passing out into a food-induced coma. The others didn't look better though and when one of the older Gryffindors announced that he would show them to their common room and bedrooms, they willingly followed, eyes heavy and stomachs full.

On their way out, John tried to catch Sherlock, but the Prefects of Slytherin had already led the first years out and Sherlock was long gone when John reached the doors with his group. The journey through Hogwarts was impressing, really, but since all the young students were tired beyond compare, they followed their Prefect through the hallways like a flock of sheep, John at least being awake enough to notice that some of the pictures seemed to move when they walked past them.

They all were pulled out of their tiredness for a moment when they stood at the end of a set of stairs that suddenly started to move and they clung to the handrail for dear life, while the Prefect seemed unimpressed.

Hearts still beating faster than probably healthy, they arrived at the painting of a really fat woman and of course that one started to move, too, and the woman bend forward to take a closer look, her cleavage threatening to break free from the dress she was wearing.

"Oh so these are the new students? I must show them the notes I can hit, now that I practiced over the summer break!" She took hold of a glass and opened her mouth, taking a deep breath, but the Prefect, with a horrified look, called: "Butterbeer!", resulting in the portrait swinging forward and revealing a hole in the wall, while the protests of the fat woman died down.

"So, this is the entrance to the Gryffindor's common room. Tell the Fat Lady the password and she'll let you in." He climbed through the hole and the first year's followed, John being one of the last one to enter and now he was faced with a warm, comfy room decorated in red and gold, the colours of Gryffindor House, and sofas and armchairs around a large fireplace.

"Now, the girl's dorm is over there-" their Prefect pointed towards a set of staircases, "and the boy's is up those stairs. Good night, everyone!"

The students mumbled a 'goodnight' back before slowly walking towards their destined rooms. John was the first one up the spiral staircase – they obviously were in one of the towers he'd seen from the boat – and walked up until he found their destination, a round room with five four-poster beds and their trunks in front of them.

Yawning, the five boys got ready for bed and John climbed between the sheets, sighing softly at the comfortable mattress and the warmth surrounding him. He mumbled a 'good night' to the others, who answered, equally tired, and soon, the boys were fast asleep.

X

Sherlock had watched John during the whole feast, barely taking any of the food offered to him. He knew John had remembered they'd met before, judging by the look he had on his face when their eyes met before, but of course there was no way they could talk to each other during the feast and soon, Mycroft and the other Prefect, a girl Sherlock didn't bother to learn the name of, lead them out of the hall and down to the dungeons.

Somehow, Sherlock had already guessed the common rooms would be down there, judging from the fondness Slytherin House seemed to have for dramatic elements – what would be more dramatic than living in a dungeon? – and, more so, the fact that some of the students at his table had the distinct smell of dungeon and old stones clinging to their robes, no matter how thoroughly they'd been washed.

He soon was sorted into a dorm with some other boys he also hadn't bothered to learn the names of and frankly, he didn't care. He sat down on his bed and let Auriga out of the small transport box.

The cat seemed to be aggravated by being kept in the box during the whole feast and she hissed at Sherlock before getting comfortable in the middle of his pillow, giving him a look that said 'Try to move me away, I dare you'.

Glad he had been so thoughtful, he offered her a bit of bacon he'd snatched off the table before and she sniffed at it before snagging it from his fingers and munching on it, obviously at least in a slightly better mood.

A shadow fell over him and Sherlock looked up, only to face a boy probably around John's height, with pale skin and dark hair. He had the bed to his left.

"Hi, I'm James, but most people call me Jim," the boy started and Sherlock eyed him bored. "I was wondering – are you related to Mycroft Holmes?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Obviously."

Jim's eyes began to sparkle, and the boy seemingly didn't understand that Sherlock didn't like talking about his brother. "Can you do the same thing he does?"

That surprised Sherlock, although he didn't show it. Jim had no older siblings at Hogwarts, he seemed to be an only child from what Sherlock had deduced, so how did he know about Mycroft at all? And about his skills? Nevertheless, he chose to just accept the fact that Jim did – but made a mental note to find out WHY later – and nodded. "Yes."

"Wow that's so cool! Can you show me? Tell me something about the others?" Jim was practically jumping up and down in excitement, but now Sherlock grew angry.

"No. I'm not some sort of circus attraction!"

Jim looked taken aback, but then brought his hands up in surrender and slowly backed away, muttering "Sorry, sorry!"

Sherlock just huffed and closed the curtains around his bed, lying down next to Auriga, who actually moved aside a bit before snuggling close to Sherlock's neck and starting to purr. With that relaxing sound, he fell asleep, surprisingly dreaming about a tiny blond five-year old who wanted to become a pirate doctor.

X

Finding the Great Hall again proved to be quite difficult, seeing as most of the Gryffindor First Years had been half asleep while walking to the common room and no one could remember the exact way back. John's dorm room companions were completely lost once they ended up on a staircase suddenly moving to the right instead of to the left.

Finally, John gathered all his courage and called out: "I'm sorry- sorry, Sir?!" after a grey figure that came out of a wall a few meters down the hallway. It was a ghost, clearly, and the others were petrified – no one had dared to talk to the ghosts last night – but John just took a deep breath when the… man floated over to them.

"And you are?" he asked, cocking his head a bit. But before John could answer, the ghost's eyes widened and suddenly, his head flipped over, dangling from the neck on just one thin sinew. Mike and Alec, one of the other boys of John's dorm, a strawberry blond boy with a friendly face, gasped and Greg's hand closed around John's wrist, probably to pull him back.

The ghost seemed actually ashamed and turned around to… fix his head back on his neck, securely tying the toby collar he was wearing a bit tighter. When he turned around again, he wore an apologetic look. "I'm really sorry for that- judging by the looks on ya fellas faces, you are the new students? I must apologize for being absent from last night's feast, but I felt a bit unwell-"

John wasn't sure what 'feeling unwell' meant for a ghost, seeing as they were, well, _dead,_ but he didn't interrupt.

"- let me introduce myself: Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, ghost of Gryffindor House!" He did a little bow, but holding onto his head tightly to prevent it from falling off again.

"Nice to meet you! I'm John Watson, that's Mike Stamford, Greg Lestrade, Alec Woodlight and Zachary Gudgeon."

The ghost – Sir Nicholas – smiled pleased before floating a bit closer, eyeing Zachary interestedly.

"Gudgeon?... You're not, by any chance, related to Davey Gudgeon who almost lost an eye to the Whomping Willow in 1970, are you?"

Zachary grinned, although maybe the slightest bit intimidated. "Yes Sir! That's my dad, sir!"

At that, the four other boys cracked up and even the ghost seemed to let go of his dignified expression and chuckled. "Well, let's hope that's not an inherited character trait, yes? Now, I believe you called me back – how can I help you?"

John cleared his throat. "Well, we're kind of… lost and we need to go to the Great Hall…"

"Follow my lead then!" Sir Nicholas called out and promptly disappeared in a wall.

The boys exchanged looks with raised eyebrows, but the ghost reappeared seconds later, apologizing and, this time, taking the 'slow way' how he called it, leading the group to the Great Hall in no time.

John instantly searched for Sherlock at the Slytherin table, but the curly haired boy was nowhere to be found. However, when they sat down, they got handed their schedules for the year and John noticed that he had the Thursdays Transfiguration class, as well as double Potions on Friday, Tuesday's Defense Against the Dark Arts and today's Herbology class together with the Slytherins. Sherlock had to be there, that was obvious.

And so John happily munched down his cornflakes and enjoyed a cup of tea while the other's worked out their schedules. At some point, Mike also realized that they had quite a lot classes together with the Slytherins and he groaned. "I'm glad I got sorted into Gryffindor, I really am, but who'd have known it meant so many classes together with the Slytherins?"

John frowned at that. "Hey, Sherlock got sorted into Slytherin and he's alright?!"

Mike made a face, colouring a bit. "Yeah, I guess… but you gotta admit, the other's all look like something is stuck up their arses."

At that, everyone around them started to laugh and while their Prefect, Malcolm Boone, gave them a reprimanding look and mumbled something about friendship and peace between the Houses, everyone knew that the century-old rivalry especially between Gryffindor and Slytherin House was not something you forgot.

X

John found Sherlock's head over the crowd of the other students easily. For being only 11, Sherlock was already taller than John and the fact that he leant against the side of the greenhouse by himself made him even easier to spot. John gestured for Greg and Mike that he'd come back later before he jogged over to Sherlock.

"Hey!" He grinned and Sherlock smiled back. "Guess what – I remembered something yesterday!"

"You remembered that we met when we were five years old, on a train to London," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly and actually grinned at John's surprised face.

"How did you- you remembered too, right?" Now John grinned again, too, and Sherlock nodded.

"I remembered yesterday, as soon as I saw you."

"Then why didn't you tell me?"

Sherlock shrugged. "No reason. It wasn't important."

"Not important?" John frowned. "We met before, that's like… a sign."

"For what?" Sherlock raised one eyebrow.

"Uh…" John was at loss for words now. "I don't know. Something. Anyways-" he quickly changed the topic, not sure if Sherlock was interested in his newfound memory and the fondness of it at all, "we've got quite a few classes together, huh?"

The taller boy nodded. "I look forward to Potions."

"Me too. Sounds like the closest thing to something medical at this school. Defense Against the Dark Arts sounds cool, too, though."

Sherlock leaned a bit forward, looking at John interestedly. "You still want to become a doctor then?"

John nodded, smiling. "And you? Still pirate?"

At that, Sherlock's cheeks turned the slightest bit pink, a colour that didn't seem to appear on his face often, before he violently shook his head, curls bouncing around his face wildly. "No. Of course not."

"Then what?"

"I'm not sure yet. I'd love to solve crimes, but I don't want to be an Auror…"

The blond gave him a sympathetic smile. "You'll figure something out."

Their teacher, Professor Sprout, chose that moment to open the doors of the glass house and soon, John, Greg, Mike and Sherlock had their arms buried in soil up to their elbows, searching for worms to feed the carnivorous plants at the back of the glass house.

The lesson passed, and so did the other lessons on John's and Sherlock's schedule – although both boys had the feelings the lessons without the other took longer than the one they'd shared that day. Mike and Greg made the double History of Magic in the afternoon bearable, as they soon discovered that although the topic could have been interesting – goblin wars! – the Professor, a ghost named Binns managed to bore them within the first ten minutes.

Sherlock felt equally bored in his Charms lesson, but that was basically because he didn't have the slightest interest in the class. They had to do partner work and the boy from the night before, Jim, came over to work with him. Not that he wanted to do partner work, but after unsuccessfully trying to talk Professor Flitwick out of it, he accepted his fate. At least Jim wasn't as nosy as the evening before and didn't try to make Sherlock talk about Mycroft or his deduction skills again.

In the evening, both boys slumped down on their beds, John exhausted and a bit worried by the workload they already had after the first day and Sherlock with a quill and parchment, doing his homework. He wasn't tired, but the common room was crowded with mainly older students – one of them being Mycroft – and that had been enough to send Sherlock to his dorm room, listening to his roommates' even breaths while he scribbled down a stupid essay about some charm. Homework seemed like a pointless thing to do, but he figured that the professors would leave him alone if he did his. Also, there was the _reputation_ to keep. The good name of the Holmes' family. Sherlock snorted and Auriga gave him a questioning look. She chewed on something that seemed to be the remains of a mouse and most people would've been bothered by something like that on their bed, but Sherlock interrupted his homework in favor of taking a closer look, examining just _how_ the kitten had killed the mouse, taking in the way Auriga's teeth had obviously snapped the smaller creature's spine.

"That's beautiful," he told the cat, voice serious, and she looked back, giving him a look of 'I-know'.

He scratched her behind her ears before returning to his essay.

Tuesday to Friday passed the same way, the classes John and Sherlock shared were pleasurable for the boys, they were always sitting together, and Sherlock, without having seen John's schedule, knew that he'd had Astronomy the night before when he entered Thursday's transfiguration class with bags under his eyes and barely stifling his yawns.

In Friday's double potions, Sherlock was the last one to manage the simple potion they had to prepare, but John noticed that it wasn't because the Slytherin boy couldn't manage to do it right, but because he was watching every single step closely, intentionally messing up the number of drops of rat blood or the number of owl claws they had to put in to be able to see the results. He collected data of every single thing that could possibly go wrong before, within minutes, mixing the potion together and actually getting the best result on his, earning him 5 House points.

When the class was over, Sherlock made his way out the door, almost disappearing around a corner before John could catch him.

"Hey, wait up-"

Sherlock turned, a surprised expression on his face.

"What are you doing tomorrow? Because, if you're free, maybe we could meet up and have a look around the castle?"

Jim had asked Sherlock the same thing the other day, and the curly haired boy had declined, not interested in either walking around the castle, or walking around the castle with _Jim_, but now that John was asking, he couldn't help but smile and nod.

"Great, we can go after lunch! We'll just meet outside the Great Hall then!"

X

John spent the Saturday morning with writing to his family – he'd wanted to do that all week, but was just too overwhelmed and busy with all the new things, that he simply didn't have the time to sit down and write it – and then attacking the enormous pile of homework that had piled up during the week. His dorm-mates and he occupied a table in a corner of the common room and the only sounds were occasional groans whenever something was especially difficult. It didn't help that Alec set fire to a pile of finished homework parchment when he practiced a charm and only the intervention of an older girl, who extinguished the fire with a flick of her wand saved them from having to do it all over again.

John was very glad when lunchtime arrived and he could stop his work. He didn't see Sherlock in the Great Hall so he ate fast, thinking that the other boy was probably already waiting for him. He was right, because when he stepped out of the Hall, he saw Sherlock leaning against a pillar, staring at the double doors, obviously waiting for John to emerge from them. Just like John, he was in his own clothes, rather than the school uniform, and while John was wearing a simple pair of jeans and a t-shirt, Sherlock had to be the only 11-year-old choosing a dress-shirt and dark trousers, as well as a long coat as his free-time attire.

When he saw John exit the Hall, Sherlock concentrated.

_Traces of ash in his hair. A blue smudge at the soft skin below his left ear. Ink on his fingers. Trousers wrinkled around the knees from sitting in the same position for a long time. A piece of burnt parchment poking out of his trouser pockets._

"Do you need to copy my homework or did you save yours?" Sherlock asked as John stopped in front of him.

"What- how did you know- no thanks, but- wow, you're really talented!"

Usually, Sherlock would have reprimanded others for these kinds of half-sentences, but somehow, John's didn't bother him at all and he got a warm feeling when John called him 'talented'. Usually, people used other adjectives. But it seemed like with John, nothing was 'usual'.

"You good to go, then?" John asked, startling him out of his thoughts. "D'you think we could look for the Owlery first, though? Need to send that letter to my family."

Sherlock agreed and together, they started climbing the stairs, taking in the details of the castle. John could lose himself in conversations with the portraits, he was just a person the people in the paintings enjoyed chatting to, and he was always polite, but Sherlock grew impatient rather quickly with the mindless chatter and dragged John away when he had enough. At least, taking the stairs was easier with Sherlock than John had ever realized it could be – the taller boy seemed to know where the stairs would move next and always predicted it correct, also knowing exactly which steps tended to _not be there_ or were traps where you could get stuck.

They found the Owlery in the West Tower and while John tried to tie the letter to Athena's foot, he asked: "Have you written to your family already?"

Sherlock, who'd been standing at the rail of the tower, staring off into the distance – but without doubt taking in his surroundings from this heightened point – turned to look at John.

"No. There's no reason why I should have. I don't need anything."

John looked up, seemingly shocked, and Athena used that moment to, once again, pinch his ear and John's head turned so he could glare at his pet. With a sigh, Sherlock stepped over and took hold of Athena's leg in one swift motion, grabbed the letter of John and tied it to the owl with practiced gestures, before carrying her to the window and practically tossing her out.

"Thanks – ow, I really need to make her stop that. Am I bleeding again?"

He turned his head a bit and Sherlock stepped closer, brushing his fingers lightly over the reddened skin of John's ear. "You're fine."

The blond still looked a bit pained when he followed Sherlock, who'd turned towards the stairs already, but picked up the topic from earlier. "I didn't write to my family because I needed anything. I just want to let them know how I am and want them to write back, tell me what they're up to. Don't you miss your family?"

"Why would I miss them? I will see them at Christmas again, and Mycroft is even here."

They walked through corridors again while having this conversation, ever so often looking into classrooms or around corners, even finding a hidden shortcut behind a tapestry (Sherlock had noticed a mild breeze coming from behind the tapestry and had lifted it to reveal a tunnel).

"So, do you and Mycroft hang out often?"

That actually elicited a snort from Sherlock and he looked at John in mild amusement. It was clear that John didn't have the questionable pleasure of having met Mycroft as of yet.

"I'll take that as no, then," John decided.

X

They were laying on a soft hill next to each other, Sherlock's coat beneath them, and watched the clouds passing by. It was surprisingly warm for a September day and John used his thin jacket as a pillow, lying on the ground in his t-shirt while Sherlock had the sleeves of his dress-shirt rolled up.

It was nice, just lying around for a bit after a morning full of homework and about four hours of walking around the school grounds. They'd made their way down to the boathouse, they'd seen the Quidditch field from afar, and had watched the Whomping Willow – from a good distance, mind you, John had not forgotten what happened to his dorm-mate Davey's dad – move softly in the light breeze. And of course, behind the Willow, the Forbidden Forrest. It held a magical attraction to both of them and Sherlock and John had been looking at it for quite a while before John had suggested they sat down for a bit.

"How about you tell me a bit about yourself?" John asked, eyes closed and content with the warm sun on his face. "I'll tell you something about me, too, if you want to. A bit of turn-taking?"

Admittedly, that was a kind of awkward way to get to know each other, and it hadn't been like that with Greg or Mike, they'd just naturally talked about personal stuff and stuff they liked or disliked, but Sherlock didn't talk about himself if not approached directly and somehow John doubted the taller boy would ask him something out of interest. Even if he was interested, Sherlock would probably deduce it or try to find it out without John knowing.

"That's not necessary, seeing as I deduced everything I need to know about you already," Sherlock naturally replied and John chuckled.

"You're weird, I know that for sure." He waited for Sherlock to make up his mind if he was insulted or not, but when no protest came, he continued. "Of course us talking isn't _necessary_, but I'd like to get to know you because of who you are. You're interesting and I'd like us to be friends. Besides, I bet you don't know _everything_ about me."

"Maybe you should get to know me better, John," Sherlock stated. "After all, you should know not to bet against me."

"Oh, really?" John blinked his eyes open and turned his head to his left, looking at Sherlock who, surprisingly, stared back, having turned his head in the exact same moment.

"Really. I know you've got a sister, Harriet, and your relationship is not good, there's a lot of resentment between you; you don't talk often. Probably because you're a wizard, but I think that's only one of many factors. You've always been the favourite child - all parents have one, even if they claim that to be wrong – you were good at school, you're polite and caring. And now you're special because you're a wizard."

Sherlock's face was expressionless, but there was a certain hardness in his eyes, as if he'd waited for John to jump up and tell him how awful he was. It made John sad that Sherlock obviously counted on the worst, even though he admittedly felt a bit disturbed by everything the Slytherin boy had said. However, something troubled him more.

"How? How on _earth_ do you know all of that?"

"Easy. Her comment when we met on the train five years ago. When you said you wanted to be a doctor, she snorted. First sign of the dislike. She tries to like you, but you're already ambitious goal in life when you were barely six showed her how much more of a person you'd become than she could ever hope to be."

"Don't talk like that about my sister!" John reprimanded him, but it wasn't said angry because he knew it was the core of the truth, although there were probably nicer ways to put it. Sherlock was just brutally honest.

"Change of topic, maybe?" he asked and Sherlock gave him one last quizzical look, still not understanding why John wasn't leaving and/or calling him names.

"So, you obviously know a lot about me, but not everything. For example… my birthday."

"Autmn. September or later."

"Don't tell me you deduced that!"

"Am I right, then?" Sherlock looked interested.

"Yeah – it's the 8th of November."

"So I was right." The boy with the curls looked content now, and John decided to tease him a bit. Although he was constantly amazed with his mate's deduction skills, he knew he needed to keep him on the ground. He grinned.

"No you weren't. You said Autumn and then September."

"'Or later', John. I said 'September or later'. Please don't make me repeat myself all the time."

"That doesn't count. 'Or later' could just be EVERY month after September."

"Clearly before the 18th of March. Otherwise, you would have been 7 already, back when we met."

"You even remember the date?!" John tried not to let his mouth gape open.

Now, Sherlock looked almost… insulted. "Of course. I remember every single detail."

John raised an eyebrow. "What did Greg wear in Potions yesterday?"

A huff. "I don't know."

"Oh, come on, it was really flashy. You must've noticed."

"Look, I certainly noticed, but I just deleted it again. It's not important! I only keep important things in my mind."

That put a smile on John's face. He couldn't be sure if Sherlock realized it, but it had been some sort of compliment. John – and their encounter – had been important enough to be remembered.

"It was a pink and yellow striped tie. He lost his Gryffindor tie and needed a replacement. But now, tell me – how did you know my birthday was in autumn?"

"He didn't lose it. The strawberry blond who shares your dorm hid it in his trunk as a revenge for Greg and Mike playing Hangman on the back of his History of Magic essay during Transfiguration – Professor McGonagall called them out on that, too. And John, really, it's not that hard. Try to think. Actually use your brain for once – no, don't give me that look. Most people don't really use their brain at all. It's not an insult to you personally."

John decided to ignore the last comment and tried to, well, use his brain.

_They'd met in March, Sherlock was younger than he was, but they had to be in the same age group, or otherwise John would have been sent to Hogwarts a year earlier than Sherlock. So John must've missed the age limit for Hogwarts closely. And since that line was drawn on the 1st of September… John's birthday must've been closely after that._

Sherlock saw the recognition when John worked it out and internally smiled.

John was pretty proud for figuring it out, but he thought he wasn't going to get praise of Sherlock, so he just asked instead: "When's your birthday then?"

For a moment, Sherlock contemplated brushing off the topic, but basically everything he did usually was turned upside down with John, so he told him: "31st of March. I don't celebrate, though."

"Somehow, I thought so," John answered drily, but filed away this information. Then something else occurred to him. "Wait, did you celebrate when you were younger? Did you get the train into London to go shopping for presents?"

From the way Sherlock rolled his eyes, John felt like he'd said something incredibly stupid and chose to smack Sherlock's arm for making him feel like that, adding: "Don't you roll your eyes at me like that, mister!"

Sherlock huffed, but then told him: "No, we went into town to go supplies-shopping for Mycroft. He got his Hogwarts letter that day."

"Mmh." John made an affirmative sound and finally lay back again, closing his eyes, but not before watching Sherlock settle down again, too. His peace didn't last long, though, because something else sounded odd to him.

"Do wizards usually take the train? I though there were… you know… cooler ways of travelling. I read about Quidditch, on flying brooms! But we came _here_ by train and you travelled by train… I don't know, that just sounds so… mundane. Is that really how wizards travel?"

John wasn't prepared for the hearty chuckle that question caused Sherlock to break out into. Finally, after having calmed down a bit, Sherlock looked at him from the side, not lifting his head. "No, John, wizards do have – how did you put it? – oh yes, 'cooler' ways of travelling. We would've taken floo powder – a way of travelling from fireplace to fireplace - but I tended to wander off so my mother chose to take the slow way."

Now John was laughing, too, not quite sure about the whole floo powder thing, but able to imagine just well how Sherlock ended up with some strangers, deducing them, while his mum was looking for him everywhere.

X

They'd spent the whole afternoon together and only went back inside when it was time for dinner.

Sherlock had found out John's birthday, that the blond disliked being bored and, amongst a billion other pieces of information, that John avoided the topic that was his sister, very much like Sherlock avoided the topic that was Mycroft.

John had found out Sherlock's birthday, and that Sherlock had mastered a memory technique where he basically had created a building in his mind where he could store every piece of information that he got and could go through them if he wanted to – as well as delete the unnecessary things. When Sherlock told him it was his _mind palace_, John had snorted because of all types of buildings Sherlock could've chosen of course it had to be a _palace_. Sherlock also didn't like to talk about his family, Mycroft in particular and he barely ate.

Of course, when John found out that his last meal had been a bit toast the evening before, he practically dragged Sherlock into the Great Hall in the evening and made sure he sat down on the Slytherin table before walking over to the Gryffindors, where he sat down in a seat from where he could glare at Sherlock, who grudgingly pushed around food on his plate and ate when John raised an eyebrow.

That night, both boys had encounters in their common rooms.

John was with his dorm-mates in front of the fireplace, exchanging stories of the day, when one of the older students, probably from year 5 or 6, approached them and stared down on John.

"You're John Watson, right?"

John and his friends had exchanged glances before he nodded carefully, not sure of what was going to happen.

"A friendly advice – stay away from Holmes' younger brother. He's no good."

That comment made John angry and he felt his cheeks heat up. "What makes you say that? Why are you even telling me that?"

The older boy made an impatient face. "The Holmes' are an old family, a very old family. And they're dangerous. Mycroft was already dangerous when he came here and now that his younger brother is here… Just stay away from them."

John stared at the older boy intently, and suddenly he understood. "What did Sherlock say to you?"

He knew he'd been right when the older boy's face coloured a deep red. "That's none of your business."

John concentrated, taking in his opponent, tried to see what Sherlock saw – but he was no Sherlock Holmes, that was painfully obvious after a moment. The older student shifted under his gaze and then turned around to leave, only stopping to look back and add: "I'm serious. Stay away from the freak."

"Can you believe that?!" John asked indignantly when the boy was gone. However, he didn't quite get the reaction of 'Oh-no-that-was-_so_-rude' he hoped for from his friends. Instead, he looked at uncomfortable faces. "Not you, too!" he groaned.

Finally, Alec gathered enough courage to carefully say: "John, look, it's not that we don't want you to be friends with him or anything, but… he made Angelica Johnson from Hufflepuff cry in Thursday's History of Magic class and he said really mean things about my sister's boyfriend cheating on her with some Ravenclaw."

John's stomach felt like a giant brick of ice and he shivered. Of course he knew Sherlock didn't hide his opinion, but making a girl cry? Then again, from what John had seen, Sherlock never was intentionally cruel, he just told the – sometimes uncomfortable – truth. "Greg, Mike – you saw what he can do in the train, remember? He's no creeper or anything, he just sees things others don't see."

Greg put up his arms in surrender. "Hey, we never said we don't like him. He just seems a bit… dangerous to be around. Especially now, after someone warned you about him. You don't warn people about harmless things."

Point taken, John thought, although he still didn't want to believe the things he heard that evening. He was awfully quiet for the rest of the night and went to bed before everyone else, deciding that he would talk to Sherlock about these incidents as soon as possible. _Stay away from this freak._ He huffed and turned under his blankets, trying to fall asleep.

Sherlock had an encounter of the non-pleasurable kind, too, although it was 'just' his own brother. He made his way through the common room as quick as possible, as per usual, not intent on spending time there, but it was no use to avoid Mycroft, who simply followed him into his dorm.

At the sight of the older – and respected (or feared?) – student, Jim and whatever the other boy's name was who was sitting with Jim, hurried out, although Sherlock noticed the interested looks Jim gave Mycroft and him on his way out.

"What do you want, Mycroft?"

"Can't I just talk to my younger brother?"

"We never do that."

"And I wonder whose fault that is…"

"I'm not the one busy trying to break into the cookie jar," Sherlock stabbed and Mycroft took a deep breath, allowing himself to roll his eyes upwards for a moment.

"Very funny, brother. Now, why am I here? You go to this school for one week now, and you already had a discussion with Professor Flitwick, you made a young Hufflepuff cry and insulted one of the girls form Gryffindor in my Transfiguration class. You also got a nickname already. Have you heard it?"

Sherlock sat on his bed and Auriga climbed his lap, while he was looking at Mycroft with a bored expression. "I only told the Hufflepuff the truth. And at least I didn't tell the Gryffindor girl her boyfriend cheated on her with another _boy_."

"Sherlock, this is not a game," Mycroft replied, looking annoyed. "We have a reputation to keep, and I'm already busy with my things without you attracting unnecessary attention."

"Don't act the innocent. One of the boys from my dorm has already heard about your skills. You're not exactly inconspicuous, either."

Mycroft acknowledged this information silently and for a moment, neither of them spoke a word. Finally, the older Holmes sighed. "Look, I'm on your side, you know that. I just want to keep you out of trouble. Believe it or not, you can trust me. Did you ever plan on telling me you met that John Watson kid again in the train? Ever since the feast – at the latest – you must've remembered."

A forced smile of Sherlock was the response. "No need in telling you things if you already know about them, huh? Leave John alone, Mycroft."

"Ah, I see, so you did remember him. Don't tell me you're friends now."

"I don't have friends."

For a moment, Mycroft seemed to think about reaching out for Sherlock's shoulder, but to both boys' relief, he stopped mid-motion. "Remember, Sherlock: Family is all that counts in the end."

Sherlock was left alone with his thoughts and a very sleepy kitten in his lap. Of course he knew what others called him – _the freak_ – but it didn't matter to him. The more urgent matter was why he hadn't deleted (or just ignored from the very beginning) every single unimportant piece of information he'd gotten from John. He still remembered John preferred apples over bananas, but would eat both if he had to, and he also remembered the street John's parents lived in and that John was very keen for their first flying lesson coming Thursday afternoon.

He would've been rather angry about the fact that so much useless information was stored in his mind palace – if, yes, IF there wouldn't have been one great advantage. Because Sherlock had realized that whenever he'd spent time with John, his mind was more focused, he could take in more details, everything was clearer. John was like a lens, focusing him – when he'd crossed the common room, he'd taken in so many things without even stopping, it was marvelous.

And, admittedly, the way John marveled at his deductions was quite pleasurable and definitely more welcome than the usual ignorance or even dislike he encountered. So, for now, he'd seek out John's presence, even if it meant using up space in his mind palace for him.

X

The urgent matter of confronting Sherlock had to wait for the day, because when John got up on Sunday morning and made his way down to the Great Hall for breakfast, he found himself cornered by two older students with green-and-silver striped ties. For a moment, he considered to run or fight if they tried anything, but they simply asked him to follow them.

"Where to?" John asked, not sure if he liked the idea of following two older students from a rival house to someplace unknown.

"You will see," one of them answered cryptically and John, despite still feeling a bit unsure about the whole situation, followed them through the corridors until they stopped in front of a classroom.

"What – you're not going in?"

"He wants to talk to you alone."

_He? _John suspected that it wasn't a teacher – they wouldn't be so mysterious if they wanted to talk to him – and Sherlock seemed very unlikely, too. So who was 'he'? Obviously, John had to open the door to find out. So he did.

"Would you close the door behind you, please?" came a soft voice from the middle of the classroom, and although the clicking of the door sounded overly loud in John's ears, he tried to stand straight and face whoever was waiting for him. Turned out, it wasn't too bad. It was a single student, male, Slytherin – going by the tie – and he didn't look too dangerous. In fact, he looked a tiny bit chubby and John figured if he was fast enough and the other didn't use magic, he could escape by running.

"No need to be so apprehensive; I merely, ahem, _invited_ you here for a little chat."

John slowly stepped closer, but didn't sit down and so the other got up, now towering above him.

"Who are you?" John asked, not sure if he'd even get an answer.

"A… concerned party?" the Slytherin offered, voice smooth.

"Why would you be concerned because of me?"

That actually elicited a chuckle from the older boy. "Oh John, of course I'm not concerned because of you – I'm concerned _about_ you."

"… Right." That didn't make much sense for John.

"I've been told you've spent a great amount of time with Sherlock Holm-"

John groaned before the taller boy could finish his sentence and put one hand on his forehead, shaking it slightly. "Not you, too. Seriously, whoever you are – I've been warned enough about Sherlock within the last 24 hours, I seriously don't need this again. Who or who not I spent my time with is none of your business."

The Slytherin raised an eyebrow, interested. "Other people warned you? So to what decision did you come then?"

"I'll make my own judgments about my friends. And so far, Sherlock has done nothing to make me doubt him." John huffed, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"Friends? Interesting…" The strange boy mused, staring off into the distance for a moment, before focusing back on John. "So, I take it you'll resume meeting Sherlock Holmes?" He didn't wait for John to confirm or deny that, though. "In that case, I want to make you an offer. You tell me what he is up to, and, in exchange, I am willing to pay… quite an amount."

John felt the disgust rise in his body and without even thinking about it, he shook his head. "No. Absolutely not – I'm not spying on Sherlock for money! You can take your money and buy yourself a unicorn or whatever rich wizard brats like you do with your money." And with that, John turned and left, leaving behind a completely stunned Mycroft Holmes.

X

In an afterthought, it had been quite fortunate that it was rather early on a Sunday morning and the Great Hall had been almost empty, seeing as John stomped in and went straight for the Slytherin table, where Sherlock was situated at one end, book in front of him. The only other students were two Slytherin girls all the way down the table, three Hufflepuffs John knew from his Charms class and Greg and Mike at the Gryffindor table.

"Care to tell me why exactly everyone I've been talking to since yesterday warned me about you being no good and why some bulky Slytherins basically abducted me to talk to this chubby Slytherin who offered me money to spy on you?!"

Sherlock looked completely taken aback at the sudden outburst and put aside his book to look at John seriously.

"Ignore them."

"Ignore- ignore them? Sherlock, people don't warn you about things that are not dangerous, so what did you do?"

"You already know that I only told them some of my deductions and that they couldn't deal with the truth. You figured that out by yourself. Oh, by the way, did you take the money he offered you?"

"Did I-" John was completely at loss of words for a moment, staring at Sherlock in disbelief. "Did I take the money?! Of course not, I don't spy on my friends!"

"Shame, we could've split the fee. I'm almost out of newt eyes again."

"You're what? Wait – do you _know_ this guy who offered me money?"

Sherlock, who'd picked up his book again, rolled his eyes and put it back down. "Of course I do. The student you described so accurate as 'chubby' is my brother, Mycroft."

With a horrified expression, John flopped down on the bench across Sherlock, not caring that he sat at the Slytherin table. "Your… brother. I called your _brother_ a _rich wizard brat_ and told him _to buy himself a unicorn_ of the money he offered me?"

Sherlock made a wheezing sound before his lips curled up and he just laughed out loud, immediately infecting John, who, after overcoming the initial shock, couldn't help but laugh, too. They laughed until their stomachs hurt and only just when he had to gasp for air, Sherlock sat up straight again and cleared his throat, still looking amused.

"That might just be the most brilliant thing anyone ever said to my brother - aside the occasional conversations he has with me."

"Don't ruin it, Sherlock," John just stated dryly before getting up and, waving Sherlock who'd already been absorbed in his book again off, walked over to Greg and Mike, where he sat down and casually grabbed a bagel and a cup of tea.

"So… I take it you had a good morning already?" Greg inquired, obviously careful not to touch the topic of Sherlock-being-dangerous again. John was in a too good mood to pick up the topic, either, so he just grinned and told him: "I might have called Mycroft Holmes a rich wizard brat this morning and survived."

x

John also survived the following week and he didn't see Mycroft alone again, although he sometimes saw him passing in the hallways, recognizing him now. In classes, he continued to sit next to Sherlock and he walked with him when he saw him, decidedly ignoring the looks other students gave them.

What he couldn't ignore, though, was the name-calling that happened behind their backs, mostly against Sherlock – since John was really just a nice guy and the other students couldn't help but like him – and it bothered him a great deal although Sherlock seemed to just ignore everyone.

It didn't get better – on the contrary, probably even worse – after their first Flying lesson. John had looked forward to that ever since he heard that lesson existed and now that the day had finally come, he could barely contain his excitement.

The Slytherins had the lesson together with the Gryffindors – probably because some professor had noticed that the Slytherins' sometimes breathtaking arrogance and meanness was taken better by the Gryffindors than the other students. So John found himself situated between Sherlock to his left and a small boy named Jim to his right, while Greg stood on Sherlock's other side – the rule was one Gryffindor, one Slytherin, in turns.

After a somehow rough introduction by their instructor, Madame Hooch, a woman with strange yellowish eyes that reminded John quite a bit of a bird of prey, they were finally allowed to 'call' their broomsticks and, if successful, climb them.

To his surprise, his broom shivered instantly when he called out a firm "Up!" and it shot into his waiting hand. Greg was equally lucky, and so was Sherlock – although that didn't really wonder John anymore, seeing as basically everything the genius did worked out. Also, given the fact he'd been raised by wizards, he probably knew everything about flying already.

Jim to his right had more trouble, and so did Mike and Alec on the opposite of John, but finally, Alec and Jim managed at their third try while Mike had to bend down and pick his broom up.

When they were finally allowed to climb the brooms and hover over the ground, John felt the adrenaline flush his body and he had to restrain himself from just flying away (which probably might have ended in a collision with the nearest wall, but still.) After all, the lesson had only taken about half an hour, but that was easily the most exciting thing of John's stay at Hogwarts so far.

Sherlock looked rather bored the whole time and after class, John, he, Mike and Greg walked back inside, John inquiring: "Are you not into flying, Sherlock?"

"It is a rather pointless activity, when there are more efficient ways of travelling, such as floo powder or apparition."

"But it's fun!" John stated excitedly and Greg nodded, nearly equally as thrilled. "It's too bad we can't try out for the Quidditch team this year already."

"We're going to next year!" Greg decided and John nodded, cheeks a bit red.

"I'm happy if I don't have to come near a broomstick again," Mike grumbled. "I'm with Sherlock on that – there are easier ways of travelling and I rather watch Quidditch than play it."

"Don't!" John warned, just when Sherlock was about to open his mouth, obviously to say something about Mike's weight. Sherlock just raised an eyebrow, but stayed silent otherwise.

X

Time had flown by after the first weeks in September, and before John knew it, it was October, and then October was close to be over, too, his birthday – the first he would spend away from home – came closer and a nasty, cold wind was blowing over the grounds of Hogwarts lately, the first sign that the warm autumn days would soon be over. The Whomping Willow's leaves had turned a deep, rich red before some of them fell to the ground and John and Sherlock had been lucky enough to be two of the few students that witnessed the tree shaking violently once, ridding itself of all the now dead leaves. That had been four days ago.

John tiredly gazed out of the window, waiting for Greg to finish in the bathroom. All he wanted was to brush his teeth and then go to bed and sleep for an eternity. It was barely 11, but the amount of courses and sweets at the feast had been enough to almost knock him out. Whoever prepared the meals had excelled themselves and the various Halloween-themed dishes had tasted incredible, not to mention the way the Great Hall was decorated with pumpkins and living bats. Peeves the poltergeist had – luckily for everyone – been banned from the feast, seeing as he'd terrorized especially the younger students all day. However, even without the poltergeist, there was enough noise from exploding bonbons and shrieks from everywhere whenever a group of squeaking sugar mice ran over a table, and John, who'd made sure Sherlock would show up at the feast, grinned over to his friend at the Slytherin table who rolled his eyes, but then grinned too, when John, who hadn't noticed one of the sugar mice climbing his robe and now sitting on his shoulder finally realized there was something sitting on him and let out a – very girlish – shriek in surprise. John shot Sherlock a glare, but couldn't help but chuckle seconds later, too.

Zooming back into reality, his eyes narrowed a bit when something like a shadow, even darker than the night, seemed to approach the tower, more exactly: the window he was standing at and he leaned forward a bit to get a better look, blinking through the darkness.

However, he basically had a heart attack when the black something hit the window, just when his nose was almost pressed against the glass and he jumped. "Holy-"

Then, the shadow moved again and he realized that it was an owl, more exactly so _his_ owl, Athena, knocking against the glass with her beak rapidly, obviously annoyed since John took so long to react. He hurried to open the window, just when Mike, Alec and Zack entered the dorm, as well as Greg, who emerged from the bathroom.

"What are you doing?" Mike inquired, and John turned, Athena sitting on one of his arms.

"Who's sending you letters at that hour of the night?" Greg asked in wonder. "Do you think there's something wrong at home?"

John shrugged before gently removing the rolled-up paper form Athena's leg, earning a pinch in the ear, before releasing her into the night again. "I'll know soon."

He unrolled the paper and his eyes narrowed to read the tiny scribble.

_"If you have nothing else to do and it's convenient, please meet me at the Entrance Doors in 20 minutes. SH"_

"So? Who is it? Everything okay?" Greg asked and tried to sneak a peek at the paper, but John just rolled his eyes and tossed it into the general direction of his trunk. He was really tired and absolutely not up for any of Sherlock's shenanigans. "Nothing important. Are you done in the bathroom?"

Greg just nodded and the others turned to chat while changing into their pyjamas when John disappeared into the bathroom. He was just done with brushing his teeth and splashing some water to his face when he heard loud voices from his friends and hurried to open the door, poking his head out.

He witnessed how all four boys were huddled together on Greg's bed and stared with wide eyes at John's empty bed. When they noticed him looking out of the bathroom, Alec asked with a trembling voice: "What the hell is that on your pillow?!"

"On my… pillow?" John made a worried face and, armed with the heavy History of Magic book he grabbed from Mike's nightstand, slowly sneaked up to his bed. Something dark moved on his pillowcase and he raised the book, ready to smash whatever was waiting there for him, but then two bright blue eyes blinked at him and he lowered the weighty tome, giggling.

"That's Auriga. She's Sherlock's cat, you've seen her on the train already! Don't worry, she's nice, aren't you, Auriga? Yeees you're a nice little kitten." He cooed the last words, reaching out to scratch the not-so-small-anymore kitten behind the ears. She purred and then rolled on her back, revealing the soft fur on her tummy, as well as a piece of paper tied to her.

"That… thing hissed at us when we walked past your bed!" Zack told him accusingly, but John was already busy untying the note.

_"If it's not convenient, come anyway. SH__  
__- P.S. Could be dangerous"_

John suppressed a heavy sigh and then reached for his dressing gown, tying it securely around his waist before picking up the black cat from his pillow. She snuggled into his arms effortlessly.

"I'll just- erm, go and take her out of the common room – no idea how she even sneaked in."

Greg raised an eyebrow, but said nothing otherwise and John left, slipping his wand into the pocket of his gown.

Luckily, there were only a few people left in the common room and John managed to sneak past them and out of the portrait without being seen. He hurried around a corner before the Fat Lady could call him out on sneaking out and then set Auriga down.

"Now, take me to Sherlock without Filch catching us, will you?"

The cat meowed once before strutting down the hallway, very much like her owner, and John had trouble keeping up.

X

A small smile played around Sherlock's lips when the small figure of John appeared at the top of the staircase. He was only halfway down when Auriga had reached Sherlock and rubbed up against his legs a few times before disappearing into the darkness of the castle.

John almost passed by him, and Sherlock quietly called out "John!", startling the blond.

"Geez, Sherlock, give me another heart attack- where the bloody hell are you?!"

Sherlock's hand came out of the darkness and closed around John's wrist to pull him behind a pillar and to end his whispered sentence.

"Good, you came," Sherlock stated lightly and he could almost see John roll his eyes in the semi-darkness.

"It's not like I had much of a choice? _'Please come if convenient, if not convenient, come anyways – P.S. Could be dangerous?'_ What's that even supposed to mean?"

"Of course you had a choice. But here you are, even at the prospect of danger."

John felt his cheeks heat up and huffed. "Well, can't let you run off to some danger by yourself, now, can I?"

"Then let's go," Sherlock stated and, realizing he was still holding John around his wrist, let go of the smaller boy before stepping out from behind the pillar and quickly flitting through the Entrance Hall towards the staircase to the dungeons. He heard John follow him and allowed himself a small grin.

The blond reached him at the stairs and, a bit out of breath, asked: "Care to tell me where we're going now?"

"Apparently, the ghosts of Hogwarts have some sort of party on Halloween every year."

John stopped mid-track and Sherlock turned, visibly annoyed. "What is it, John?"

"A party. We're going to a party- a _ghost_ part- Sherlock are you _insane_?!"

"Keep your voice down. And no, of course I'm not insane. I recall clearly that you said you liked parties."

John face-palmed. "But ghost parties? Sherlock…"

"Don't you want to come?" Sherlock felt unsure of John's reaction, and his face hardened while he awaited his companion's answer.

For just the slightest moment, John seemed contemplating to turn around, but then he met Sherlock's eye and grinned. "Sod this. How often do you get the chance to attend a ghost party?"

It was all Sherlock needed. He grinned back before skipping down the stairs, sure John would follow. Soon, they'd reached the area of the dungeons where Sherlock suspected the party to be – and he was right. They could hear and smell the party before they even saw it, but only when they slipped in through a door and hid behind the next pillar, they realized why.

There were tons and tons of rotten food on golden plates and the band in the corner played on something neither John nor Sherlock would've described as instruments and calling the sounds they were producing _music_ would've been an insult at the fine arts itself. It sounded quite like a mix between a cat someone stepped on and really bad violin music, mashed together and then played backwards.

Oh, and then there were the ghosts, of course. Never in his life had John dreamt of seeing so many ghosts – or, to be honest, any ghost – in one room, and Sherlock saw that on the older boy's face. He also saw something else.

"John, are you going to be sick?"

John, indeed, looked a bit pale, nearly as pale as the surrounding ghosts, but he shook his head violently, eyes still fixed on a ghost clad in chains that was standing close to them and talking animatedly to the Fat Friar, Hufflepuff's house ghost.

"That… do you know Charles Dickens' "A Christmas Carol"? He looks so much like Marley- wait, you've got that look on your face again, Sherlock. Please don't tell me- noo, can't be- really?"

Sherlock enjoyed the shocked look on John's face. Of course, most books about ghosts the Muggles had written were based on encounters with wizard ghosts. When he saw John had stomached that information, he leaned in closer to the other boy's ear, not wanting to sit still for longer. "We should-"

"What do you two think you are doing behind that pillar?" A voice startled both of them before Sherlock could finish his sentence and they jumped a bit, although Sherlock managed to scramble to his feet a bit more dignified than John. They were face to face now with who seemed to be Gryffindor's house ghost.

"You're Nearly Headless Nick," Sherlock stated and watched how the ghost's expression changed from mild confusion mixed with anger to utter indignation.

"Young man, that is not the correct way of addressing me! And on top of all, not on my Deathday-"

"We're sorry, Sir Nicholas," John quickly interrupted him, his face a bit red, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. He figured that John would recognize the ghost, but simply interrupting him when he was clearly upset? John Watson was full of surprises, and Sherlock found himself thrilled by that discovery.

The ghost cocked his head a bit – Sherlock noticed how it trembled the slightest bit at the motion – and then said: "You're John Watson. I remember you. What are you doing here? And who is your impolite companion?"

"This is Sherlock Holmes. And he's sorry, _right_-" the younger boy noticed the look John gave him and, with a roll of his eyes, nodded in agreement, "-and we just… heard of this party and were interested."

"Well, it is impolite to attend my Deathday party, or any party for that matter, without invitations so I suggest you leave now. You'll only make some of the other ghosts upset with your warm bodies and the blood and the flesh…" Nearly Headless Nick looked quite upset himself and Sherlock felt John's arm tugging at his.

"Yes, of course, we're leaving. Sorry for the… uh, disturbance. Have a good evening!"

They hurried out of the door and closed it behind them, just when another ghost came out of the wall next to them and hovered right in front of them. The ghost was a man, wearing a stained cape and had stains of some sort on his trousers and shirt, too. He looked quite intimidating, well, at least judging from John's face.

Sherlock eyes him with more interest than fear – after all, it was just a ghost, it's not like he could touch them or anything – before stating: "The Bloody Baron, ghost of Slytherin House. John, there's no need to be frightened."

The response was immediate. "I'm not frightened! I just-"

_"Holmes."__  
_  
It took both of them a moment to realize that the deep, gravelly voice belonged to the ghost in front of them. Sherlock stared back into the dead, grey eyes without hesitation.

_"Remember my death."_

With that being said, the Baron disappeared in the wall again, leaving a confused John and a silent Sherlock.

The young genius felt the question burning on John's lips even before he asked it, but he waited until John actually asked: "What is that supposed to mean? And why does he know your name?"

"He's the ghost of my House. You would think he knows my name – besides, I saw him at the party, he was very close to us, he could've picked it up from our conversation with Sir Nicholas. As for his statement – I don't know why he told me that. It's probably not important."

Of course Sherlock had quite an idea what it meant, but John would not have to know that. He saw the trust in John's face when the blond shook his head and then grinned.

"We just attended a Deathday's party of a ghost. On Halloween. No one's gonna believe it!"

John's excitement made Sherlock chuckle, too, and soon they were both giggling, especially after Sherlock added: "We're also just wearing our pyjamas and dressing gowns."

They were both leaning against the cold wall of the dungeons after that, laughing, their combined voices sounding through the dark hallways, mixed with the music from the ghosts, in a terrible, but quite appropriate soundscape for the scariest night of the year.

X

John was overly aware that it was his birthday when he was woken up by four boys simultaneously shouting "HAPPY BIRTHDAY JOHN!" at him while Athena – who someone obviously let in – screeched loudly, sitting on a large package.

It was probably the most insane way of being woken up, but John loved every minute of it and the boys spent about an hour sitting on John's bed, eating their way through various boxes of candy they'd gotten John as presents, while the birthday boy looked through a book called "Quidditch Through The Ages" he got from Greg – "so you know everything there is to know when we try out for the team next year" – and watched the small device called Sneakoscope he got from Mike interestedly. Obviously it was supposed to make some sort of sound if someone untrustworthy was around, but seeing as it was buzzing and whirring even before John had unwrapped it, he wasn't sure if it actually worked.

"I got it from a guy called Mundungus Fletcher in Diagon Alley," Mike explained, scratching his head. "In an afterthought, he looked rather suspicious…"

"I like it anyway, it's a really cool…. _thing_," John reassured him and pocketed it, intent on showing it to Sherlock later.

Seeing as it was a school day, the rest of his birthday passed rather uneventfully, although Sherlock actually did congratulated him – something John hadn't expected – and examined the Sneakoscope with interested, but he shared John's opinion that it was probably broken already, because it never stopped buzzing while the taller boy held it between his fingers. Then again, John showed it to Sherlock at a table full of _Slytherins_ and John noticed with amusement how he already started to feel the mistrust between his House and Slytherin House that had been cultivated over the centuries grow in his chest. He didn't like it, but he found himself falling into the stereotype a bit.

It didn't worry him too much, though, because in his opinion, Sherlock was great friend and totally trustworthy.


	3. First Year - Part II

Two weeks before the end of the term, Professor McGonagall asked around if anyone would stay over at the school for Christmas, but none of the boys in John's dorm did, and neither did Sherlock and Mycroft, how John found out later.

At the same day, it began snowing heavily and within hours, the grounds were covered in a thick, white blanket that silenced everything and made the school look more peaceful than ever before. Not for long though – the first snowball fight broke out not even ten minutes after the last lesson of the day ended and soon, there were war-like conditions; it was House against House and within the Houses, older students against younger students until half of the school was frozen to the bones and completely soaked and red-faced, but incredibly happy.

John's dorm had competed with the others more than well, especially John's and Greg's aim had been impeccable, while Alec and Mike were awesome at building walls around them to shield them and Zack had basically tried to hit anything that moved, which was rather effective, as well.

On the way back to the Gryffindor common room, they encountered Sherlock, who raised an eyebrow at their disheveled state.

"You missed the most epic snowball fight of the century!" John told him grinning and he just shook his head, lips curling up in amusement.

"You mean I missed getting soaked to the bones and very possibly a cold?"

"We're not going to get sick," Alec waved him off and Sherlock retreated from arguing back, simply waving John goodbye and continuing his way down to the dungeons where he planned some new experiment.

Needless to say that indeed, two days later, John's dorm was sick and the five boys looked miserable with their running noses and cheeks reddened from fever. At last, half of the castle was in the same state and classes were cancelled for the rest of the week, seeing as more than 50 percent of the students either didn't show up at all or, if they showed up, nearly passed out on their tables. And because not even Madame Pomfrey could deal with all the sick students, not even with the help of Madame Hudson, an assistant the school had called from St. Mungo's, classes were cancelled.

Sherlock didn't visit John, but he sent him Athena with a note that read: _"I would say 'I told you so' but I don't think that's necessary, given your current health state. Get well. SH", _and two days later, Auriga once again sneaked into the Gryffindor dorms once again and curled up on John's chest, not caring when he coughed and nearly threw her off from time to time, and she, too, had a message, together with a small package, when she came to John. He un-wrapped the small package and found a chocolate frog, as well as some herbs, and another note. _"Make tea with the herbs, they'll make the cough go away. You can keep Auriga for the night if you want to; she likes you and she's excellent at keeping you warm. Hope to see you on Monday. SH"_

John chuckled, then coughed and then groaned before petting the not-so-small cat and sinking back into the pillows, trying to sleep the fever away.

With the help of Sherlock's herbs and the living heater Auriga was, John was feeling well again on Sunday evening while his dorm-mates slowly recovered too, and on Monday, the usual schedule was picked up again, all classes taking place regularly.

X

The train ride to London for Christmas was really pleasant, seeing as Sherlock, John, Greg, Mike, Alec and Zack shared a department and Sherlock seemed to be alright with their presence, although he still mainly talked to John or busied himself with Auriga.

The cat had grown a lot since they'd come to Hogwarts three months ago and had turned from a cute – even if dangerous – little kitten to a – still dangerous – bigger cat, whose sabre-teeth that were the reason for her name, were now clearly visible against the dark fur around her mouth. Sherlock had taught her not only to deliver packages and letters and to come when he whistled, but she could also bring most objects if you told her to and she could open doors – not only those with handles, but also sliding doors.

As the day passed and they were close to arriving, Greg and John exchanged addresses (they could easily use the Muggle Post in order not to attract too much attention with owls carrying envelops) and telephone numbers, but when John asked Sherlock for his address, the younger boy simply told him: "Athena knows where to find me. She's not just an owl, John, she's magical." Alec nodded at that – he, too, came from an old wizard family, he would know – and John, although not quite sure about the whole thing, accepted it.

Finally, the train rolled into the station and the students poured out and into the waiting arms of their parents. John spotted his mother next to some pillars and quickly turned back to Sherlock. "My mum's waiting over there, I gotta go. Have a nice Christmas, Sherlock!"

"You too, although it's not even that im-"

"I don't wanna hear it," John told him, grinning. "I'll write you, okay?"

"Sure."

And John wasn't sure, but maybe there was the tiniest of smiles on Sherlock's face after that.

"See you in the new year!" He called out and then, dragging his trunk along, John disappeared in the crowd.

Sherlock watched the short blond disappear before he tightened the grip around his own trunk and went to look for Mycroft and his mother. He found them in a less crowded area and allowed his mother to kiss him on the cheek before stepping back. Secretly, he was happy to see his mother, but he surely wouldn't speak that out loud – it was not something he ever did, so why start now.

X

To John's utter surprise, even Harry hugged him when he stepped in through their front door and the dinner together went well, too. John, as well as his parents, made sure not to talk about magic when Harry was around and instead, he told them about the epic snowball fight, the following days off when everyone was sick, and the also talked about his dorm mates and Sherlock.

"So, you seem to have found some great friends," John's father noticed, and his mother seemed to think about something. "How about you invite them over in the summer?"

John smiled. "Yeah, maybe. Would be cool, I think."

With these thoughts, John went to bed that night, wondering how it would be to have Greg and Mike and Alec and Zack over and – most importantly – Sherlock. Somehow, he couldn't wrap his mind around having a sleepover with Sherlock Holmes, but that had time until the end of the term, so he didn't worry too much.

Christmas was a pleasant couple of days, the only thing that was a bit hard was to make sure John and his parents didn't talk about magic in front of John's grandparents, since they'd decided to not tell them in order to avoid heart attacks or being declared insane altogether. John didn't mind, though, because as long as he didn't talk about magic or Hogwarts, Harry was nice to him and they even spent a whole day playing board games together, much like they did when he was younger.

At the 28th, he scribbled down a letter for Sherlock and put it in a small box with some muffins his mum had made.

"Can you carry all of this?" he quietly asked Athena as he opened her cage and hold out his arm for her to step on.

She sent him a disapproving look and – as usual – pinched him in the ear, before hooking her claws around the rope tied around the box and lifted off easily.

"Alright, alright, you're a strong owl," John threw his arms up in surrender and rubbed his pulsing ear while opening a window for her. He watched her disappear into the night and wondered how long it would take for her to return.

Turned out, he didn't have to wait too long. She was back the following evening and he hurried to let her in, checking her leg for a response, but to his great disappointment, she was not carrying anything with her.

"Sherlock did not respond? But you found him, right?"

He half-expected her to pinch him again, and she did, but this time, it was not as hard as she usually did – it seemed more affectionate to him and she rubbed her head against his cheek one time, as if to cheer him up, before hopping into her cage.

His parents as well as Harry noticed that he was down the whole evening, although he tried not to show it, but finally, his mum asked: "What's wrong, John?"

"I'm just being stupid, really. I sent Sherlock a package yesterday, remember? And Athena came back today, but he didn't reply… Maybe he's just busy with his family or something-"

"- or maybe the package is just lying somewhere in the dirt because you trusted a freaking owl with it and that's just plain weird?!" Harry interrupted, suddenly very angry and John stared at her in shock.

"Harry, that's not possible – the owls are magical, they are capable of delivering a lot of stuff, they even bring the mail in the mornings, you and mum and dad sent me letters with Athena too, remember?"

"Oh yeah, magical owls that bring magical mail in your stupid magical school- I say that's all bullshit!" She huffed and sat back against the sofa, arms crossed, while their father sent her a reprimanding look.

"Harriet, watch your tone, please!"

"Oh, for god's sake-" she rolled her eyes and got up, trampled up the stairs and banged her door shut, while the rest of the family sat in the living room awkwardly. Finally, John looked down. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-"

"It's not your fault, sweetheart. She's just a bit envious, I think. Don't worry about her, she'll be fine tomorrow. Now, about Sherlock – how about you phone him tomorrow, hear if he's alright?"

John actually smiled at that. "I'm not even sure if he has a telephone – I think it's not how wizards communicate with each other. I'll send him another letter soon and see if he replies. It's probably nothing, really…"

X

Sherlock was awake when Athena clacked at his window in the middle of the night. He had already figured she would appear again and he'd been ready for it. In a swift motion, he opened the window, untied the letter from her leg, replaced it with a short note and closed the window unceremoniously again, without even handing her a treat or anything. He was sure she was able to hunt for herself, and Auriga was out there, too, so they'd probably share a mouse. He'd already noticed the strange friendship between his cat and John's owl and figured it might turn out to be useful at some point.

He was sure that John was disappointed at his lack of his response when Athena had shown up the first time and he'd sent her away without a letter, but really, it had been very bad timing. Basically the whole extended family had been sitting in the sitting room when the little owl had clacked against the window and Mycroft had sent him a warning look, of course able to identify the owl. Under the attentive eyes of all of his uncles and aunts, grandparents and great-grandparents, Sherlock had stood up to let the owl in and quickly untied the package before shutting the window again.

"Who is sending you packages at this hour?" his uncle, Robert Lestrange, a tall, intimidating man with thick black hair and even thicker eyebrows, asked, eyes narrowed.

"It's an express delivery of newt eyes and fire salamander skin I need for an experiment," Sherlock swiftly told him.

"And what's the paper attached to it?"

"It's a security instruction on how to work with salamander skin. Some shops attach them now, because of the increasing numbers of mud-bloods. They don't know how to deal with the ingredients, because they obviously weren't raised with that kind of things." The lie came out swiftly and Sherlock knew his voice was flat and didn't show the any sign of his increased heart-beat. He was glad he'd learned to control his face and voice like that, otherwise this whole situation might have turned into the wrong direction.

Thankfully, the topic of mud-bloods easily captured his uncle and Sherlock could excuse himself from the room, claiming to have to put away the newt eyes so they stayed fresh. Surely enough, Mycroft followed him out of the room and entered his room just when Sherlock sat the package down on his drawer.

"That was risky," Mycroft stated, eyeing the package interestedly. "I was prepared to turn whatever it is in the package into newt eyes, just to make sure you, ahem, stayed out of trouble."

"I didn't know he was going to sent something."

"But you should have figured."

"You, of all people, should know that John Watson isn't always predictable."

Mycroft smiled tightly. "That, brother, is true. You do realize that he is going to worry, now that you didn't send him something back, right?"

"Of course. I'll be prepared the next time, though."

"You'd better be. Now, are you not going to open it?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "Curious, Mycroft?"

"Of course I am," the older Holmes said, mirroring the raised eyebrow.

"Then go on, open it."

Mycroft didn't question his brother and stepped to the drawer, carefully untying the letter and placing it next to the package before opening it.

"How… mundane. He sent you muffins."

Sherlock made sure his face didn't give his thoughts away, but deep inside, he smiled and shook his head at utterly confusing John Watson. He knew Sherlock barely ate, and yet he sent him muffins, no doubt threatening in his letter to do something drastic if Sherlock didn't eat them.

"Well, I'll leave you to your letter then," Mycroft told him. "Make sure to be back downstairs within the next 5 minutes or Uncle Robert or Aunt Eleonora will get suspicious." He sighed. "I cannot tell you often enough how utterly stupid – yes, I'm using that word in this context – this is… whatever it _is_ you share with John Watson. It will do you no good, and neither will it do him any good. I don't have to tell you that we're an old family, and, if to our advantage or not, there is the combined bloodline of Black, Lestrange and Flint resting within us. We descend down to the Bloody Baron – not the best environment for a – excuse my language – mudblood."

Every other person would've protested heavily if they'd heard their friends being called mud-blood, but first of all, Sherlock didn't have friends and secondly, he knew Mycroft was right.

"I'll see you downstairs," Mycroft finally said and turned, taking a muffin with him.

"Do you think this will do _you_ good?" Sherlock called after him, referring to the sweet cake, but Mycroft just lifted his head in a dignified gesture, seemingly ignoring his younger brother's comment.

That had been on the evening the first letter arrived and ever since then, Sherlock had spent a great amount of time in his room, only coming downstairs when it really was required, and then immediately retreated back to his chamber, in hope to be there when Athena returned. Which finally worked out, when the owl arrived at his window on the evening of the 1st of January.

He didn't get the chance to read his letter until it was bedtime, though, seeing as it was the last evening all his relatives would stay at the Holmes' manor. Sherlock knew what was expected from him and he behaved accordingly, although he dreaded every second, but seeing as he was only eleven and would have to depend on his family for at least until he reached legal age, he needed to put up with the charade.

After a late dinner, his relatives left one by one, and his Uncle Robert told him: "Make sure you don't get too close with the mud-bloods, yes? All that talk about them being just like us is pure sham – the old blood is what counts! We can't let the mud-bloods take over what once belonged to the pure blooded wizards only."'

"Mihi parta tueri," Sherlock stated and Robert looked at him delighted.

"That's it, boy. And, not to forget, the Black's motto?"

"Toujours pur."

"Yes. Your brother Mycroft is very promising already, and we hope to see the same in you."

Although Robert gave Sherlock something that he probably thought resembled a warm smile, there was an underlying threat Sherlock identified easily.

X

_"Sherlock,_

_I'm not sure if you get the principle of sending each other letters, but_

_usually, you reply if you get one. (Don't roll your eyes at me now!) But since you're smart - there, I said it – you know that and probably just chose to ignore it. Or maybe you're busy with some kind of experiment – see, I wouldn't have to guess if you just answered me._  
_Anyways, I hope you actually ate the muffins I sent you or at least gave them to Mycroft and that you had a nice Christmas/New Year's Eve (I know you don't like celebrating it, but still). Harry doesn't speak to me ever since Athena came back with no answer (long story) but it's still nice being at home, especially since mum is fussing about me a lot. If she knew I'd be sneaking around with you in the castle at night, she'd probably freak out, so I'm not telling her that._

_It would be really nice if you replied to this letter cause otherwise I'd feel like I'm monologising._  
_See you at Platform 9 ¾ !_

_John"_

Sherlock had read the letter three times, practically memorizing it by now and he was astonished that even a simple letter could sound so much like John it felt like the boy was in the same room with him. He found he really missed John's presence by now, it felt like he had constantly worked entirely focused and now his thoughts were less controlled, fuzzy around the edges so to speak, and he more than once found himself talking to John about some theory or some experiment, only to realize about an hour into his monologue that, in fact, he was having a soliloquy, seeing as John wasn't present.

Another straining activity was to keep his relationship with the blond a secret, although obviously Mycroft knew about him and his mother at least suspected something. Of course it would be scandalous if any connection between them was revealed to his extended family – Mycroft had been correct: the Holmes' were descendants of the very old, and very pure-blooded families and while the two Holmes' boys had the luck that a great amount of their dominant character treats had come from their mother's side of the family, a more open-towards-muggle-born-wizards side, the other side of the family consisted of strong protectionists of the pure-blood and the heritage, going so far as to exclude family members who came in too close contacts with mud-bloods.

Sherlock himself didn't care about the blood line much, and neither did Mycroft, although he had learned to use the old blood to his advantage, and their mother, clearly dominating her husband in these things, was relatively open-minded and had persuaded her husband to at least tolerate the muggle-born, but that was about as open-minded as anyone from his father's side got.

If Sherlock wanted to keep John around, he needed to keep him a secret. And that was why the short note he scribbled down earlier read:

_"Athena needs three hours to fly the distance between our houses. You can only send her so she arrives here at 11 pm or later, you need to remember that. Otherwise I won't be able to reply. It's a necessity, don't question it. Since it's important to you, I hope you have a good time with your family. See you at the Hogwarts Express. SH__  
__P.S. Mycroft liked the muffins."_

X

John wasn't sure if it was going to become a habit, but when he finally spotted Sherlock in a department close to the end of the train, he got the familiar feeling of bursting in on him, just like many years ago and only recently, at their first trip to Hogwarts.

"Hi, I'm sorry, but are these seats taken?"

Sherlock looked up and John grinned, winking at him before pulling his trunk in and manhandling it once again up until it was secure on the luggage rack.

"You're wearing a new jumper, probably the one you don't like, seeing as you pulled out your House jumper of your trunk before putting it up on the rack; you're ready to get changed – has one of your extended relatives accompanied you here today?" Sherlock asked, not bothering to properly greet John, but instead staring at the – admittedly rather ugly - green sweater with white snow-flakes.

"No, but we stopped at my grandma's on our way here, and she got it for me, so… yeah," John explained, grimacing down.

Sherlock watched how John leaned out of the window for a moment, waving at someone in the crowd – obviously his mother – before closing the window as the train started to move, sitting back across Sherlock.

"Hello, by the way! Did you see Greg and the others?" John asked, watching the people on the aisle passing by.

"I saw Greg waiting for Mike, who was talking to some Ravenclaw. I don't think they'll show up here, though."

John raised an eyebrow. "And why is that?"

"Because Mycroft will be back any minute." Sherlock made a face as if he'd tasted something disgusting.

"He's sitting with us? But I thought the Prefects had their own department?"

When Sherlock didn't reply, John concentrated for a moment and then, the combination of this situation and the burning desire to inquire Sherlock about his short letter – although he had been told not to question it – made him come to a conclusion. "Is this somehow about why you didn't reply to my letter – well, not immediately, anyway – and why I'm supposed to send you letters after 11 in the night?"

"Yes."

For a moment, John stared at Sherlock, awaiting a more elaborate explanation, but soon it was clear that there was not going to be one, so John had to make his own assumptions.

"Wait, this not still about _scaring me away_ from you because you're 'no good', is it?"

Mycroft chose that moment to enter the department and nodded at John, before sitting down next to his brother.

"Ah, John, good to see you again."

"Likewise. It's nice seeing people without being abducted by their assistants," John told him sweetly and noticed Sherlock's amused curl of lips.

"I wouldn't call it an abduction, more of a friendly pointing out of the way," Mycroft replied with a thin smile. "Did you enjoy the Christmas break?"

John was careful at friendliness, but he saw no harm in answering, at least vaguely. "It was nice to see my family again, yes. How about you?"

"Oh, just as. We had family over, too."

Somehow, John found it hard to imagine Mycroft and Sherlock – and the rest of their family, which he had no idea how they looked like, but, in his imagination, all wore suits and looked kind of serious – sitting around a Christmas tree in tracksuit bottoms and jumpers. To his misfortune, he didn't have the same control over his face like Sherlock had and his thought process must've been quite clear, because Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him and asked: "Really, John?"

What surprised John the most, though, was that Mycroft expressed the exact same thing at the exact same time, resulting in both brothers shutting up abruptly and looking at each other with a look that John could only describe as horror.

Apparently, Sherlock wasn't the only genius in the family. Mycroft just seemed to hide it better. Now John understood why the older Holmes brother was feared _slash_ respected amongst the other Hogwarts students.

"Don't worry, I won't tell anyone you agreed on something," John laughed and earned death-glares from the brothers, before they settled back, Sherlock opting to stare out of the window while Mycroft made small-talk, John answering politely, but casually, until they were interrupted by the witch with the sweets.

"I don't think you should buy anything, Mycroft," Sherlock advised his older brother, who gave him an annoyed look. "After all, you ate almost all of the muffins John sent."

"You did?"

A strained smile of Mycroft was the answer. "My brother is exaggerating, although I had two, if I remember correctly. They were delicious, by the way – kind regards to your mother, I believe?"

John nodded. "Yeah. I'll tell her."

"You're parents are Muggles then, I hear?"

Even to John it was obvious that Mycroft already knew that, and from the way Sherlock looked at him, raising his eyebrow the slightest bit, he knew he would want to be careful. "Yes. Me being a wizard turned out to be quite a surprise. Your parents are both wizards, right?"

John knew it was a long shot, trying to get any information about the Holmes family from two young geniuses, but he figured there was no harm in asking. He already was sure that they had to be kind of rich, seeing as Mycroft offered him money to spy on Sherlock, and going by the clothes both the boys wore when they weren't in their school uniform. Also, the way they both talked made the impression of being well-educated, although probably home-schooled. Alec had told John that many of the old wizard families taught their children at home until they got their Hogwarts letter.

Of course, especially Sherlock's way of talking was way ahead of any other 11-year-old John had ever encountered, but that probably came with his high intellect; also, John just couldn't imagine Sherlock talking like… well, he or Greg did – and he found that Sherlock's way of talking and thinking rubbed off on him already sometimes.

"Our whole family are wizards and witches; we're pure-blooded, going back well into the late 10th century."

John found his choice of words a bit odd, seeing as his dorm-mates told him that, after Voldemort, not many people talked about pure blood anymore – apparently, it was sort of racist – John hadn't really understood it, but he didn't inquire further.

The rest of the train ride went on more pleasantly because Mycroft decided to leave for the Prefects department at some point – John oddly felt like he had been living through an interrogation and was now done – leaving the two First Years to themselves; Sherlock got a bit more lively, although John thought he acted a bit off, a bit more reserved than usual, but maybe it was just because of Mycroft or his Christmas break. He didn't talk about it much, and John knew better than to pressure him into telling him what he'd been up to.

Instead, Sherlock told him about experiments he had done – he'd been looking at the results of different kinds of asphyxiation (John hadn't dared to ask on whom or what exactly he had studied that) – and said that he was planning something big. When John inquired about that, Sherlock waved him off and told him: "I'll tell you soon enough."

And just like that, they were back to their usual ways.

It was several weeks later that John would find out what Sherlock had been planning for a while.

X

"JOHN WATSON?!" The voice of the Prefect startled the boy in question from a drowsy state of content sleepiness in front of the fire. "WHERE IS JOHN WATSON?"

John quickly scrambled to his feet and called out "Here!", still more than confused. He tried to remember if he'd done something wrong or forgot to hand in homework or something like that, but frankly, he couldn't think of anything. He didn't have to wonder for long, though, because the Prefect made his way over and gave him an annoyed look.

"Your friend, the freak, is outside the portrait and throwing a tantrum because the Fat Lady won't let him in although he told her the correct password – you're his friend, go out and tell him to go back to his own common room. Oh, and if I find out he got the password from you-"

"Don't call him that! And he didn't get the password from me, he probably just figured it out by himself!"

The Prefect was clearly not used that a First Year spoke to him like that, but John found his manners appalling and weren't the Prefects supposed to be friendly and guiding instead of insulting? Even if Sherlock threw a tantrum out there, there was no reason to call him names. John didn't wait for a response of his Prefect and just marched past him and towards the portrait, climbing out swiftly.

In the hallway, he found an indeed very cross looking Sherlock, who was apparently disturbed in his discussion with the Fat Lady when she had to swing aside to let John pass.

"Finally!" Sherlock huffed and it sounded like he and John had had an appointment to which John was incredibly late.

"Don't you 'finally' me! What the hell is going on here?" John hissed, not bothering to hide his annoyance.

"Obviously, I wanted to talk to you, but this… this _woman_ wouldn't let me in although I told her the correct password - which, by the way, is really ridiculous. 'Broomstick', really?"

"If you wanted to talk to me, you could've just sent me Auriga or Athena – you use my owl more often than I do!"

"You tend to ignore urgent pleas of mine unless I repeat them a few times; this was way more efficient."

"Yes, throwing a tantrum in front of a portrait is really efficient and so grown-up…" John's sarcasm didn't get through to Sherlock obviously, because he looked rather insulted.

"Excuse me? I was not throwing a tantrum – I merely tried to have a reasonable discus-"

"Yeah, save it. So, now that you have my undivided attention, what do you want?"

Sherlock's eyes started to glow and John knew that look, sometimes he dreamt of it and he never knew if he feared it or loved it. It was the look that signalized him Sherlock was up to something.

"I want to go into the Forbidden Forrest tonight."

John wasn't sure if he had heard Sherlock correctly. "You what?!"

"I'm not going to repeat myself, you heard me perfectly well. Are you coming?"

"But- isn't that dangerous?!"

Sherlock looked at him seriously. "Did that bother you before?"

John stared back, quiet for a moment. Then he sighed. "I just need to go back in and get my jacket and-"

"Do you have your wand?"

"Uhm-" John checked his backpocket. "Yes?"

"Good, that's all you need. You're wearing a dress shirt and a jumper, that's warm enough for the moment, and I cared for the rest. Let's go then!"

X

They slipped out the Entrance Doors unnoticed and soon, the Forest was coming closer, as they descended the soft hills towards it. It was almost dark already, seeing as it was only just the beginning of March, but at least John didn't freeze yet.

He was also very glad Sherlock chose to go to the forest just before supper, so he wasn't wearing his pyjamas this time around, and although they might have attracted attention – John wasn't wearing his cloak and Sherlock was, as per usual on weekends, in his own jacket, a long coat, although he, as well, was wearing the jumper with his House emblem on it.

When they reached the edge of the Forbidden Forest, both boys took out their wands and lit them with a mumbled "Lumos".

"Is there anything in particular you want to look at or are we just randomly wandering around in there?" John asked, staring into the darkness between the trees.

"I heard there are living some extraordinarily creatures in there. Also, apparently Harry Potter lost the Stone of Resurrection somewhere in there. Imagine how great it would be if we found it!"

"He lost the what?"

Sherlock sighed impatiently. "The Resurrection Stone – one of the three Deathly Hallows. It brings back the shadows of dead people."

John wasn't sure what he should think of that. "How do you know it's in the forest? And, more importantly, what would you do with it once you had it?"

"I just know. And imagine what it would do for crimes – if you could just bring back the victims and asked them what happened to them."

There was something in John's mind that tried to tell him something, but it didn't quite get through yet and so he just nodded before taking a step forward, towards the trees. "Then let's go."

And so they entered the Forbidden Forest.

For a while, the whole place didn't look too bad. Sure, it was creepy as hell, walking in a dark forest, but there was nothing that looked anormal and the only creatures they encountered were a few owls and bats, disturbed by the lights of their wands.

They'd been wandering for a bit more than an hour, when John realized how hungry he was – he'd just missed supper and his stomach made clear that he was not happy with that situation, growling from time to time. After a particularly loud growl, Sherlock came to a halt abruptly and turned around, eyebrows furrowed. "You're _really_ hungry?! Why? You had lunch about 6 and a half hours ago! And a considerable amount, I might add. Watch it, or you're going to end up like Mycroft."

John rolled his eyes. "Mycroft isn't that fat, you know it – besides: I need food, I'm in a growth stage!"

At that, Sherlock snorted and looked unbelieving. "Do tell, where are you growing to again? Surely not upwards."

John huffed at the comment, but it was more amused than anything else; he couldn't believe Sherlock had just teased him. "Shut it, beanstalk."

Sherlock grinned, but then their banter was interrupted by another, even louder growl. Both pairs of eyes flew to John's stomach and then the boys raised their heads until they stared at each other.

"That was not my stomach," John stated flatly.

"I know," came Sherlock's immediate response.

"… There's something behind me, isn't there?"

The taller boy nodded, face hard. "I suggest we run, John."

"Definitely!" John breathed out and stormed forward, passing Sherlock and yanking him with him in the motion, blindly running into a direction he thought was safe. Well, obviously everywhere was safer than behind them.

Sherlock got ahead of him soon – thanks to the longer legs – and John's breathing came out of his lungs ragged and hot, while he tried to keep up with his friend. The fact that Sherlock suddenly decided to zig-zag through the trees didn't exactly help and John managed to call out: "What are you doing?!" to which Sherlock replied, not slowing down: "The three-headed dog behind us is too bulky to maneuver between the trees like we can-"

"THREE-HEADED DOG?!"

"JOHN STOP TALKING AND CONCENTRATE ON RUNNING!" Sherlock shouted back, clearly not intending to put up with John's freak-out at the moment.

The plan of zig-zagging was good, and for a moment John thought they might escape, but the sounds behind him became louder and suddenly, the heavy breathing and growling mixed with the sound of bursting trees. Obviously, the three-headed dog had found out it was stronger than the trees and just waltzed them down now.

And then, suddenly, silence. John ran right into Sherlock, who'd stopped, too, and sent them both to the ground in a pile of limbs. He immediately tried to scramble away in order not to hurt the boy below him, but Sherlock held him firmly in place, 'shh'-ing at him.

All John could hear was his own hammering heart beat and his heavy breathing. He looked at Sherlock, who lifted his chin, indicating for him to look around, so John slowly turned his head, glancing back over his shoulder.

"That's-" Mere meters away was standing an enormous dog with three heads, who was wincing and sniffing around, but not coming closer. John froze when his eyes met those of the middle head, dark blue with brown in them meeting bloodshed black eyes. And then the dog winced for one last time and whirled around, dashing away.

John felt wriggling beneath him and quickly moved away when he remember Sherlock was still pressed into the ground with him on top. He didn't get up, though, but just leant against a tree trunk, trying to catch his breath again, while Sherlock sat up and reached around for his wand, passing John his own in the process.

"Interesting. Judging by his teeth, that dog is about 20 years old, but his fur is shining, so he's well-kept," Sherlock stated, staring off into the distance, where the dog had disappeared.

"You honestly had the time to look at his teeth and fur?" John asked, still finding it hard to regain a normal breathing pattern.

"Of course I had. I also noticed it tucked its tail between its hind legs, so it was clearly terrified by something. He-" Sherlock's eyes had wandered back to John during his deduction and now he was staring at his older friend, face unreadable.

John took the short pause to light his wand again and pointed it over his head, taking in his surroundings. There was nothing that seemed particularly terrifying, only more trees and more darkness and some white strips of something dangling in the breeze.

"John, how do you feel about spiders?"

Sherlock's voice startled him out of his gazing and he looked into his friends silver-grey eyes confused. "I… don't like them? I mean, they're okay if they're far away but I wouldn't want to have one as a pet, if you're talking about that. Why?"

The taller boy's mouth turned into a thin line, before he answered, voice pressed: "In that case, you don't want to look at the bark next to your right ear."

John froze in place and his eyes widened, drilling themselves into Sherlock's concentrated ones.

"I need you to stay absolutely still," Sherlock ordered and lifted his wand, pointing to somewhere a bit right to John. And then, in one swift motion, he moved his wand a bit forward and called "Flipendo!"

The boy against the trunk could feel the Jinx hit something right next to him and out of reflex ducked away, when he already felt Sherlock's hand close around his wrist and drag him upwards and away.

X

He moved swiftly, pulling John up and dragging him along, not caring if he hurt the older boy in the process – really, if the three-headed dog had been afraid of the spider, John would survive a scraped knee. That was, if they survived their night out.

Thoughts were racing in Sherlock's mind and while he was still going through his options, he didn't notice that the ground they were running on was slowly descending and suddenly, it was gone completely, his legs were kicking in the air and he and John fell, both boys screaming in surprise and then Sherlock felt ground under his feet again, but he toppled over and tumbled over, rolling through dirt and leaves and pine needles, hearing John's grunts mixing with his own and for a moment, he didn't know where up and down was until his tumbling over was slowed down by something sticky.

He heard John spit out some dirt and gasp for air before the blond noticed: "That's a giant spider net, Sherlock!"

Of course he'd already noticed that by himself, but he didn't have the time to state the obvious. As exciting as this whole adventure was, if he was right – and he almost certainly was – they'd stumbled over the Acromantula colony that lived in the Forbidden Forest and they would be dead within minutes if he didn't come up with a plan. The problem was, most of his plans failed in the planning stage already because they required magic neither he nor John were able to do as of yet – and probably never would be able to do, if this was ending the way it _shouldn't._

His eyes moved around rapidly, trying to block out John who was rambling on about the spider net and tried to free himself and he realized with a certain amount of tension that the shadows around them had started to move and that these shadows had eight legs.

He was still pondering if using the Dancing Feet Spell would do them any good when he realized, way too late, that a particularly big spider, probably the size of a horse was coming towards them from above, pincers clicking loudly and poisonous saliva dripping down. While he still tried to find a way out, one part of his brain marveled at the efficiency of the spiders, waiting for their victims in an ambush, capturing them in their nets and poisoning them with a quick bite – and then he felt a heavy body on his back and legs poking into his sides.

This was the moment John Watson chose to become calm, lift his wand and, with a precision not even Sherlock was capable of, fired a Fire-Making Charm directly into the spider's mouth, blasting her off of Sherlock and lighting up the whole clearing for a moment, enabling them to see that they were in a hollow roofed with an enormous net. Oh, and that there were hundreds and hundreds of spiders coming towards them. Then, the moment was gone, and Sherlock, still staring disbelievingly at John, felt the older boys finger's curl around his hand. The touch was oddly comforting and it also worked wonders on Sherlock's mind.

Suddenly, everything was clear, and with a steady voice, he pointed towards the net surrounding them and murmured "Incendio", watching light blue flames lick at the soft material of the net before taking over and racing along the threads rapidly. The spiders around them started hissing, but that was not important to Sherlock. He felt the flames licking at his skin, since he was covered in the net, just like John, and so he fought his way to his feet and, hand in hand with John, started to run into the one direction not covered in spiders, while behind and around and above them the gigantic net burnt in bright blue, cold flames.

Out of nothing, a spider jumped in their way and both boys simultaneously pointed their wands at it and called out "Flipendo", sending it out of the way.

They ran for what seemed an hour, until they didn't hear the hisses of the spiders or legs scurrying or pincers clicking anymore, until the glow of the burning net was fading in the darkness and until the air became clear and cold again, the stench of the spiders, rotting flesh and the sticky-sweet scent of the net gone, too.

And then, like a lighthouse in a stormy sea, they saw the lights of the castle through the trees.

John laughed out relieved as he saw them, a smile spread on his face and his eyes were shining as they stumbled out from between the trees. It was only then he let go of Sherlock's hand, almost as if he hadn't noticed he'd been holding onto it for the whole chase – unlike Sherlock, who was overly aware of it. Holding hands had made sense, though, because if they'd lost each other in the forest, the evening might have ended differently.

"We survived. I can't believe it. We're still alive!" John called out and looked at Sherlock with a mix between disbelief and sheer excitement. "We almost died but we made it!" The taller boy watched interestedly, how John's expression slowly changed and finally, he looked rather angry. "You- we- we almost DIED tonight! I can't believe I agreed to come with you- I can't believe I allowed you to go! You could've died!"

"John, calm down. We didn't die and we gained some interesting information about the forest!" Sherlock wasn't sure why John was so angry – after all, they had survived, no point in denying that – and all the things he experienced tonight were more than satisfying.

"We almost got eaten by a three-headed dog AND enormous spiders!" The blond shivered and put his arms around his body.

Sherlock was not sure if it was because he was frightened or if realization hit him or if he was simply cold. Nevertheless, he shrugged off his coat and held it out for John, who didn't seem to understand what he was supposed to do with it. The taller boy rolled his eyes. "You look cold. And you're probably in shock. Take it!"

"Of course I'm in shock, I almost died twice today- wait, you said you cared for it when I said I was going to get my jacket, back at the common room."

"I lied," Sherlock stated, and impatiently hung the coat around John's shoulder when the boy made no move of taking it. "Don't give me that look – I just wanted to get going faster and the risk that someone would've stopped and inquired you if you went to get your jacket was too big."

"You're impossible," John told him, but Sherlock heard that he didn't mean it in a bad way, so he finally allowed himself a smile, while his mind already sorted out all the new information.

"Are we going back to the castle now? I don't think I can live through more adventures tonight," John then asked and he nodded, both boys then starting the walk back to the castle. It was further away than they'd thought, they'd come out of the forest at basically the other end and so they still had a good walk before them.

John was quiet, probably processing everything that had happened, while Sherlock did the same, his mind basically repeating everything that had been going on. When he came to the part where John had burnt the spider on his back, he looked up. "John?"

The blond turned at the serious tone in his friends' voice.

"What you did… back in the net… that was, uhm, quite extraordinary. Thank you."

The warm smile John gave him after saying that made Sherlock's lips curl involuntarily, too, and he asked himself for the billionth time why John was so intense, when all the other people he ever met were just dull figures.

"So, you're content with what we experienced? I mean, we didn't find the Stone thing you wanted, right?"

"The Resurrection Stone, according to legend, only brings back those close to a person, so, after over-thinking it, it might not even be that useful at crime scenes. Besides, if you got to ask the victim who his murder was – where would be the fun in unraveling the mystery?"

"Yeah, right, the police wouldn't want to miss the fun when it comes to dead people, right?" John agreed, clearly sarcastically, but Sherlock knew that John understood what he meant.

"And seeing a three-headed dog as well as a colony of Acromantula is something most wizards never experience in their whole life and we did it both in one night. Oh, John – I could go on about the Acromantulas forever – did you know their poison not only kills their victims but also decom-"

"As interesting as it sounds, Sherlock, but I rather not hear about the spiders' ways of killing after having escaped them just minutes ago, thank you," John interrupted him softly and rolled his eyes at him.

"Fine," Sherlock huffed, not happy about being interrupted, but not too mad, either. "But I'll tell you one day!"

"Sure. Now, can you please look at my back and tell me if there's still spider net clinging to me? Cause I rather not walk into my dorm still covered in that." Sherlock watched amusedly how John squirmed around, trying to look at his own back, seeing as they had almost reached the castle and he reached out to twirl John around, picking up a few pieces of net (and putting them into the pockets of his trousers for later analysis) as well as sticks and dirt – from his own coat, seeing as John was still wearing it – before turning around himself so John could do the same from him.

"Geez, that sticky stuff is all over your hair-" Sherlock yelped when he felt John tug at strays of his hair. "Don't be so whiny - you need to rinse that out. Actually, I think both of us could do with a shower…"

Sherlock nodded his agreement and then they walked the last meters together, until they came to a halt in front of the Entrance Doors. John carefully shrugged out of Sherlock's coat – which was way too long for him. Sherlock wasn't that much taller, but still, the coat was long and it had almost touched the ground when John had worn it.

The Slytherin boy slipped his arms back into his coat and noticed a faint smell of something strange, yet familiar, which he then identified as "John Watson" and his brain automatically filed away that scent.

"I guess I'll see you tomorrow in Herbology then," John said and Sherlock nodded. They pushed open the Doors quietly and slipped in, making an effort in not making any sound and they simply waved at each other, before Sherlock started scurrying across the hall, towards the dungeons.

John took a deep breath and then crossed the hall quickly, just about to step on the first staircase when a shadow jumped out of the darkness to his right and he felt his heart skip a beat – until he noticed it was just a cat. He let out a relieved sigh and turned away to climb the stairs when he had the probably 12th heartattack of the evening when the cat's outlines blurred and it changed into Professor McGonagall. A very cross looking Professor McGonagall.

"Do tell, is there a reasonable explanation why you are out of bed, Mr. Watson? Or why you have a branch in your left trouser pocket?"

That was the moment John realized he was royally screwed.

x

John was not sure what he'd expected, really. Standing in the entrance of the kitchen, he looked in awe at the hundreds of small creatures with enormous bat-like ears, most of them clad in what seemed to be towels tied like a toga.

"These are the House-Elves of Hogwarts. Usually, they do their work alone, but they agreed to let you work with them for the night. You're going to help them with the dishes of the feast and then clean the kitchen. No magic." Professor McGonagall gave him a stern look. "There is a reason the forest is called the _Forbidden_ Forest, and you, Mr. Watson, seem to be able to understand the definition of forbidden. So whatever madness possessed you when you decided to "take a walk at its edges", how you put it, I sincerely hope a night full of work will rid you of that. I regret it deeply, but I also dock 50 points from Gryffindor. The Forest is not something to be taken lightly."

The professor gave him one last look before she disappeared through the door, leaving him with hundreds of House-Elves and his thoughts. They quickly ordered him to go and help drying the plates and he started this mindless work, grumbling in his head.

Professor McGonagall had been furious when she heard John's story and had immediately taken him down to the House Elves, seeing as he was in her house and she was responsible for his punishment.

Of course he would never tell on Sherlock being with him in the forest – or that he'd been _in_ the forest, at all; the 'take a walk at the edges' had been the first thing that had come to his mind instead - but the fact that he was the one being punished for an adventure that had been Sherlock's idea stung. 'The madness that possessed him' – of course that was Sherlock, but he couldn't tell that, now, could he? Friends didn't tell on friends. But friends also stood together. And where was Sherlock now? In his cozy bed, while John was drying plates.

Then again, it wasn't Sherlock's fault that the Slytherin dorms were closer to the entrance than the Gryffindor common room which was all the way through the castle. Still, John was sure Sherlock must have noticed how he'd been caught, seeing as it happened seconds after he crossed the hall.

He sat down a plate a bit harder than necessary and it cracked, not breaking apart, but a visible crack going right through it. His eyes widened and his mind raced – now he also had to explain a cracked plate while already being on detention, and everything just because he was angry and-

Out of nothing, a pale hand holding a familiar wand appeared and with a light tip on the plate and a mumbled "Reparo!", the crack disappeared and John's head shot up, staring at the person next to him with wide eyes.

"Sherlock?!"

"You might want to be careful with these plates," the boy in question stated lightly before taking a wet one and starting to dry it off. After a while, he noticed John still staring at him and he sighed. "I heard you were caught and went to Professor Slughorn, telling him I was out at night. He sent me here as a punishment. Admittedly, that was my idea, but I think he was too tired to think of anything else."

For a moment, John had trouble processing what Sherlock told him, but then he smiled and turned back to his pile of wet plates.

"Thank you."

This time, Sherlock looked up in confusion and John smiled wider.

"You could've just gone to bed, but instead you got yourself punished. You're a great friend."

Sherlock cocked his head for a moment, and then he picked up another plate. For the rest of the night, they worked in comfortable silence next to each other, drying off plates, scrubbing ovens and the floor until their knees and backs hurt. But they did it together, side by side, and it wasn't so bad after all.

It was about five in the morning when the Elves told them to leave and they walked out of the kitchen in silence, eyes heavy and bodies hurting. At a crossing, Sherlock turned right, when John turned left.

"I can't believe we have to go to breakfast in like two hours," John said with a groan and a yawn and Sherlock couldn't help but yawn, too.

"But, John? We've been in the Forbidden Forest!" the taller boy added with an excited grin.

"We've been in the forest, we saw a three-headed dog and giant spiders - _and_ we found out where the kitchen is!"

John giggled, Sherlock did, too, and soon they were both laughing madly.

Their eyes met and for a moment, they just stared at each other, before John lowered his eyes to look at his watch and groaned again. "Try and get some sleep – I'll see you in four hours for Herbology!"

"You too, John." Sherlock turned and slowly walked down the hallway, while John climbed the stairs. They were both smiling to themselves on the way to their beds and although they slept over breakfast and barely made it to Herbology – where they basically fell asleep on each other's shoulders since it was a theoretical lesson and they were allowed to sit down – and while most of the other students stared at the _freak_ and John with confusion, neither of them regretted their night out. Running and investigating, just John and Sherlock, Sherlock and John. It had felt right.

* * *

**Mihi parta tueri - 'I will fight for what is mine' - The Lestrange family motto**  
**Toujours pur - 'Always pure' - The Black family motto**


	4. First Year - Part III

By lunchtime, everyone was talking about the rumour that the Forbidden Forest had caught fire in the night and some students who had woken up during the night and had looked out of the window swore that they had seen flames licking up the trees of the dark forest, somewhere towards the center and apparently some early-birds had seen thick black smoke coming from between the trees in the early hours of the morning.

Of course John had told his dorm-mates about his nocturnal whereabouts, but he left out what exactly they had seen in the forest and he left out most details about the detention that had followed his adventure with Sherlock, but although he didn't go into detail about the forest, he knew Greg was suspecting that he and Sherlock had something to do with the fire, seeing as his dirty clothes had some dark smudges that looked suspiciously like ash.

The fire was enough to keep the whole school busy for the day and soon the wildest ideas were roaming the hallways – apparently, some students told everyone they'd seen a dragon coming from between the trees and now the main discussions were about the possibility of these creatures living in the forest and – if they really happened to live there – what kind of dragons they would be.

John managed to stay out of these conversations mostly, avoiding them if possible, since he wasn't intent on being dragged into something and accidentally telling about what really happened in the forest that night – he usually wouldn't worry about himself blurting out secrets, but giving his sleepiness, he wasn't sure if his brain would keep up with his mouth.

Sherlock seemed to deal better with his lack of sleep and after drooling on John's shoulder for most of Herbology, he actually seemed just normal again, excitedly chatting to John on their way back to the castle while John nodded and hoped that someone would open the doors for him in case he fell asleep walking and just ran into one.

He was more than glad when he could sit on his bed after classes that day and all he did before he lay down was gathering all his dirty clothes and piling them in front of his bed for the house elves to wash them. When he bent down to pick up his stained trousers, he noticed that something was clicking inside the pockets of them and he reached in to collect a handful of dead leaves and a few small pebble stones.

After examining them, he threw most of them out of the window, only keeping a dark, moderately-sized one he thought was pretty. It was sort of black and reminded him of the spider's eyes – it would be his reminder of this night (not that it was something he would easily forget!) and he threw it into his trunk, deciding he would take it home and place it on a shelf in his room.

And then, to the utter surprise of everyone in Gryffindor that didn't know about his long night, he went to bed even before supper and slept like a stone right until next morning.

X

John had thought for a long time about what he could get Sherlock for his birthday until Alec and Greg had pointed out a so-called "Rainbow glass". Despite its fancy name, it was an actual useful thing that looked almost like a magnifying glass, but with lenses in all colours of the rainbow, that served different purposes, depending on the situations used in. It was a fairly new invention, so it took John a while to get his hands on it, but when he finally wrapped it and packed it in his bag to give it to Sherlock later, he knew that that was the perfect present for his friend.

Granted, Sherlock made sure that no one got to see him until it was inevitable when their Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson took place and secretly, John betted that the Slytherin boy had tried to avoid anyone who knew about his birthday – probably only Mycroft and John himself – as long as possible, but he had lessons to attend. As soon as he took his usual spot next to John, the blond grinned and gathered air to congratulate him, but Sherlock glared at him.

"Don't."

"But… it's your birthday, Sherlock! You simply can't tell me you hate it so much I'm not even allowed to say something about it," John argued back, amused.

"I already had my mother and Mycroft congratulating me, and I received presents as well. I believe I have lived up to all the social conventions regarding one's birthday."

John just rolled his eyes and carefully placed his present on the table in front of Sherlock. "Well, I guess you can endure one more present."

The Slytherin rolled his eyes, but, in the end, carefully untied the package and retrieved the Rainbow Glass.

"Is that a Rainbow Glass? You shouldn't have got one. I know how hard they are to get," Sherlock stated after examining the glass with a look John could only describe as glee and enthusiasm, belying his protests.

"Alec's dad works at the Ministry of Magic in the Auror department and he used his authority to make it possible I got one for you. And Greg pointed the thing out to me in the first place. You might want to thank these two, too."

"I'll think about it," Sherlock replied absently, still examining the different-coloured lenses of the magnifying glass.

John huffed in mild annoyance, but happy that his friend seemed to like his present. When the lesson began, Sherlock carefully pocketed his present and didn't mention it again, but after an hour or so of practicing the Knockback-Jink – something that was unnecessary for both John and Sherlock, given their more than excessive training with it while fleeing the Acromantulas in the Forbidden Forest a good three weeks ago – classes for that day finally ended and when they walked out together and headed for the main staircase to go to their respective common rooms, Sherlock told John: "Thank you for the Rainbow glass. Admittedly, it made this day less dreadful than it might have been otherwise."

The smaller boy grinned. "Geez, Sherlock, make sure Mycroft doesn't hear that."

"Hear what?" Came a soft question from behind him and John felt his face colour a deep red – he had forgotten about the fact that the elder Holmes usually frequented the hallway at that time of the day, too. Sherlock, however, wasn't surprised at all and reacted smoothly as ever.

"That there will be an extra plate of dessert for the first ten Slytherins at the table for supper."

John had to hold back a snort at the sour look on Mycroft's face, while the older boy just rolled his eyes at his younger brother. "Very funny, Sherlock. I see, you turning older has done nothing for you character as of yet. I will see you." And with that, he walked away, head held high, and it was only then that John allowed himself to grin.

"He knows very well that my behaviour wouldn't have changed from yesterday to today. Just because one's birthday is ap-"

"Yeah Sherlock," John just waved him off, still grinning, and made his way up the stairs to the common room, while Sherlock turned to walk down. John was grinning for a long time after that, and he thought to himself that the only time Sherlock truly sounded like a boy his age – 12, now – was, when he bantered with his older brother.

X

Of course Sherlock was not as stupid as to let the Rainbow Glass lie on his nightstand, but while he opened his trunk to go through his things and find a good place where to put the delicate instrument without damaging it, he heard footsteps.

Surely enough, it was Mycroft, and Sherlock made a face in annoyance. Seemingly, having turned 12 still didn't prevent his older brother from checking on him whenever he saw it fit.

"John gave you a Rainbow Glass?"

Both Holmes' knew it was not a question, but despite Sherlock fought the urge, a somehow sassy "So what?" slipped out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

"Oh, nothing. Just keep in mind that it will get increasingly harder for you to keep all of that from the family – admittedly, both you and I have a higher intellect than anyone else, but if you keep doing things like your little escapade in the Forbidden Forest, it will be obvious for other people, too. John has told his dorm-mates about his adventures, and if they talk to their family, sooner or later our family will hear of it."

"I'm not stupid, Mycroft. And John is very loyal – he only mentioned we were in the forest, but not what we did, and since we already happen to be the topic in this school, it will only be a matter of time until some of the families will talk. It's inevitable."

Mycroft stayed silent; of course he had known that, too, but no matter what Sherlock thought of him, he really just tried to do the best for his younger brother – and his acquaintance. Yes, admittedly, Mycroft had taken to like this John Watson to a certain degree, impressed by his character and behaviour.

"I suggest you spend more time with the boys in your dorm, so we have something in your favour when the John-bomb drops, so to speak."

The eyes of the younger Holmes wandered around the empty beds of his dorm-mates. "Moriarty is not pure-blooded."

"But he's been sorted into Slytherin, so he holds enough character traits valued by our family to please them if they know you've befriended him."

"I don't befriend people." Sherlock's face was unreadable.

"Neither do I."

There was a silent understanding between the brothers, before Mycroft turned and left.

X

As the days got warmer John and his dorm-mates took up the habit of doing their homework outside in the sun if the weather allowed it, usually sitting against some trees at the lake by themselves after some of the older Gryffindor students had passed them and knocked over an inkpot over John's History of Magic essay and telling him it was for losing them 50 House points.

Up to that incident, John had almost forgotten that he lost his House points, but obviously the other Gryffindors hadn't and now he felt bad again at the reminder of it. Surely, the night in the Forest had been awesome and terrifying at the same time, but the loss of the points cut deep in his loyalty for his House. They were like his second family, after all, and disadvantaging them was not something he had planned on ever doing.

His friends didn't abandon him for losing the points – although they were upset about it, too – and just helped him re-write his essay while calling the older students names and point out the wrongfulness of their actions to make John feel better.

It was one of these moments where the young boy felt incredibly thankful for everything that had happened to him, from getting his Hogwarts letter to coming here, to finding the best friends he probably would ever find.

Sometimes, Sherlock would join the Gryffindors outside, although he much preferred to be in the dungeons where he could do experiments of all sorts or being alone with John. When he joined the Gryffindors, he would talk to John and Greg mostly, and Greg and Sherlock could spend hours talking about the Muggle police, where Greg's father worked.

John also noticed that Sherlock had start to 'hang out' – if you could call it that – with some of the other boys in his own dorm, too; a small boy with dark hair John was sure was called Jim and two other posh-looking boys he couldn't remember the names of. Sherlock never looked like he enjoyed their presence much, but of course John didn't point that out – after all, the Slytherin could befriend whomever he wanted.

Unlike Sherlock who could come and sit with John's dorm-mates, John never even thought of joining Sherlock's dorm-mates – he was not stupid and saw the looks they gave everyone who did not belong to Slytherin and especially the students with Muggle parents, like John and Greg.

There was only one time John spoke up about Sherlock's new-found… friends, and that was when Sherlock and Greg showed up in the library on a rainy April day, Sherlock bleeding from his nose, the collar of his white dress shirt stained in red and he was being led to the table where John was sitting with Mike, Zack and Alec, by Greg, seeing as Sherlock had his head thrown back into his neck to stop the blood.

"What the hell happened to you?!" John called out, earning a death glare from the librarian. He lowered his voice and repeated his question, this time earning a glare from Sherlock.

"It's nothing."

The Slytherin's voice sounded really nasal and pressed but none of the boys felt like laughing, seeing as there was still a heavy stream of blood coming from his nose, having soaked the pile of toilet paper he held in one hand almost completely.

"I was on my way here when I heard Sherlock talk to two or three older students. They were angry with him, from the tone of their voices, so I hurried after them, but before I'd reached them, I heard a smack and footsteps retrieving. When I passed the bathroom on the second floor, I saw Sherlock sitting on the floor with a bleeding nose. I gave him some toilet paper and brought him here."

Greg looked at the Slytherin with a worried face, while John looked extremely aggravated. "Someone punched you?! You need to tell Professor Slughorn who did this to you so they get punished – I don't care what kind of deduction you told them but they can't punch you!"

"John, calm down! It's not that bad – see, it already stopped bleeding," Sherlock told him and lifted the soaked toilet paper, only to reveal a indeed _still_ bleeding, crusted, disarranged nose. John gasped and, for the lack of a tissue, quickly pressed the sleeve of his abandoned jumper to Sherlock's nose, pressing back the Slytherin's head gently and holding him in place with one cool hand at the nape of his neck.

"We need to get you to the nurse. And then we're going to Professor Slughorn and tell him about it – are there any witnesses besides Greg?"

Sherlock made a face. "That is completely unnecessary – if I'd been faster they wouldn't have caught me and hit my nose. And no, there are no more witnesses, Wilkes and Moriarty ran when the other's cornered and grabbed me."

And this exact moment was the only time John ever snapped when it came to Sherlock's dorm-mates. "They left you alone?! Seriously, Sherlock, real friends don't do that! I don't know what you find about them…"

Everyone was silent, an awkward, uncomfortable silence and even Sherlock didn't reply, he just looked at John with an emotionless face – well, as emotionless as it was possible with a possibly broken nose – until John lowered his gaze and cleared his throat, his hand leaving Sherlock's neck to rub at his own sheepishly.

"I'm sorry. That was uncalled for – I'm just angry that you had to face the older students all by yourself. Now, let's get you to the Hospital Wing."

Without a comment, Sherlock stood and carefully walked towards the exit of the library, and John and the others quickly followed, all of them worried about Sherlock's well-being.

Halfway to the Hospital wing, Sherlock changed to the other sleeve of John's now completely ruined jumper, seeing as the other sleeve was already soaked as well and by now, John started to worry seriously about his friend, who looked increasingly pale due to the blood loss.

"Can't we just help him with a spell? Reparo or something?" Greg asked, but John's horrified look silenced him instantly.

"You can't use Reparo on a living being, it wouldn't fix the wound and only lead to scarring and probably even more pain and trouble," John explained quickly and a relieved smile appeared on his face when he saw the door of the Hospital wing.

They all stayed while Madame Pomfrey fixed Sherlock's nose with a flick of her wand and then handed him a potion to make up for all the blood he'd lost. The Slytherin made a face when tasting it, but the stern, no-nonsense faces of both the nurse and John made him swallow everything without complaining loudly.

After the others had departed – not without 'Get well soon!'s – only John and Sherlock remained, and the Gryffindor insisted on accompanying Sherlock on his way back to his dorm to prevent him from running into the older students again. While walking the hallways, Sherlock looked grumpy and even more unapproachable than usual, with the dried blood on his dress-shirt and remains of blood on his face, even though Madam Pomfrey had handed him a washcloth.

The Slytherin was highly displeased that John had insisted on coming with him – as if he couldn't handle walking the school by himself! In one of his more miserable thoughts, he even went so far as to mock John in his head because if they actually encountered the older students again, the above average small boy would not be much of a help, but almost immediately after, his mind played out the scene in the Forest again and Sherlock got even grumpier when he had to admit to himself that John was indeed very capable of handling dangerous situations. If he was honest, he was even glad that John was walking next to him; it gave him a sense of calmness and, as always, John was the most pleasant company, compared to the other Gryffindors or, god forbid, the brats from his own dorm.

John obviously did not know about all the thoughts whirling through Sherlock's mind, but at some point, he broke their silence and asked: "What did you say to them?"

"Excuse me?"

It was clear that he had startled Sherlock out of thoughts, since the taller boy looked at John with the expression of someone who'd been far away, maybe fast asleep, and only now coming back to life.

"Why did they punch you, the older students? I mean, usually people just call you names…"

For a moment, Sherlock seemed to contemplate if he should tell John, but then his usual indifferent expression came back and he shrugged. "I merely pointed out that they'd better zip up their flies and waited a moment instead of stepping out of the same cabin together if they didn't want to attract attention."

That confused John quite a bit. "So they were… in the same toilet stall to do their, uhm, business?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "They were obviously pursuing a sexual relationship."

At that, John felt his face flush and he coughed, while Sherlock watched him intently. Finally, he seemed to be able to form a sentence without dying of embarrassment. "You mean like… kissing and stuff? How do you even know about- you know, _these things_?" His face still felt hot and Sherlock's intent gaze didn't make it better.

"John, how do you think your parents got you or your sister? You surely must know about-"

"I am NOT talking about my parents doing… whatever, Sherlock!" John was desperately hoping for one of the disappearing steps by now; of course it was kind of his own fault that they were talking about kissing and… having babies and stuff, after all, he had asked what Sherlock had told the students who punched him, but how on earth was he supposed to know the conversation would end up being about that?!

And then, something else occurred to the still very red-faced Gryffindor.

"Sherlock – Greg said he found you in the boys' bathroom."

"Yes."

"And the older boys grabbed you and held you while one of them punched you? Or did the girl punch you? Because I'm pretty sure you would have been able to free yourself if a girl held you-"

"John, there was no girl involved. As you quite correctly noticed, if there was, I would've been able to escape just fine."

Now John was even more confused before. He had heard about men living together with other men like his mum and dad lived together, but it just seemed so strange, hearing something like that from Sherlock, and about people roughly _his_ age, teenagers, not grown-ups.

"So… the two boys were… kissing and you deduced that? But why were they so angry? Are they cheating on someone else and thought you might tell?"

Sherlock shook his head, eyes still trained on John and John had the weird feeling that he was being tested at the moment.

"Most people have no problem if two men are in a relationship, but some of the old families don't like that and seeing as they're both from very old families, they probably feared that the word of them would spread and somehow reached their families. After all, most people here spend their whole days chit-chatting about other people."

John felt upset. "But that's just stupid – as long as they're happy, why would their families be upset about it?" It felt weird since he now felt bad for the boys who beat up Sherlock, but to his surprise, his friend's gaze softened for the shortest of moments.

John gave him a smile and, as to make sure who his loyalty belonged to, he added: "But if they hit you again, I'll punch them back. No one gets to punch you when you're being a jerk, besides me!"

That brought a grin to Sherlock's face. "Besides you?"

John grinned back. "That's what friends do. Punch people who harm their friends… and occasionally they punch each other."

Sherlock easily came back at him. "I would punch you but I would have to bend down too much to reach your nose. Too much effort."

The slightly smaller Gryffindor made a face, but he was not really annoyed. "Oi, watch it – you're not too tall for me to reach your nose!"

"I invite you to try!"

"Keep on teasing me and I will," John threatened, but still grinning, and Sherlock just grinned back before they finished their way through the castle.

When the Gryffindor said his goodbye at the steps down to the dungeons, Sherlock quickly returned to his dorm and stripped off his blood-stained pullover and dress-shirt, leaving it in a pile at the end of his bed and opting for a shower. Thanks to the nurse, his face didn't even hurt when he washed it and the only thing that reminded him of his earlier incident were the bronze-coloured streams of water that ran down into the drain from his neck and face.

He was lying on his back, Auriga on his stomach, when Moriarty and Wilkes showed up in his dorm, and although they hypocritically asked about his condition and mumbled excuses for leaving him alone, he chose to ignore them completely until finally even Moriarty gave up talking to him and sat down on his bed with a book.

From that day on, he didn't walk around with them anymore, although he mostly made a friendly face around them when Mycroft was in sight. Once again, John (and, to an extent, Lestrade) had proven to be the only one worth his time and trust, and he was more than enough for Sherlock. Because Sherlock didn't need _friends._

X

May, despite the beautiful days with sunshine that just tempted the students to lie on the fields and watch the clouds all day turned out to become stressful, since it was the month before the exams and although some older students like Alec's sister had tried to calm the boys, they felt like they had to prepare for war.

John, who had been serious about school stuff even in primary school was now even more serious since he wanted good grades, not only to please himself but also to make his parents proud, and so he was usually the one to motivate his dorm-mates to study, too.

Sherlock needed a lot of motivation (no one was surprised about that, though), and mainly because he didn't see the need in getting useless information in his head when he would delete it later.

"How can you delete stuff from your head anyways?" John dared to ask, and was once again granted with a monologue about the mind palace and different memory techniques, as well as the way Sherlock could willingly forget about anything he didn't find useful – basically, tearing down the room it occupied in his mind palace, so to speak.

"Well, if you can delete it so easily, then just get it in your head - I don't see what the problem is," John argued and Sherlock huffed in annoyance, shooting death glares at his book about goblin wars.

"It's just so pointless! It's like… like making the effort of baking cake and then setting it down in one room with Mycroft!"

John snorted in laughter and even Sherlock's lip curled up in amusement, but only until John gathered himself enough again and pushed the edge of the History book against Sherlock's arm.

For a while, Sherlock actually settled down with the book, and John dived into his notes about carnivorous plants, but soon enough, he felt something repeatedly hit the back of his parchment and when he looked up with a sigh, he saw Sherlock lazily pointing his wand at all kind of small objects discarded on the table, making them float and hit John's notes.

When he noticed John's glance, he made an innocent face and. "I'm just practicing."

John narrowed his eyes, before picking up his wand, and with a flick, making his pot of ink float, directing it so it hovered over Sherlock's curls.

"Go back to your book or I swear I'll let it drop!"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, too, while he tried to decide if John would actually go that far, but for once, John's face was clear of all emotions, a true pokerface and with a huff, Sherlock put away his wand and picked up his book again. Somewhat pleased, John directed the ink back on the table and picked up his notes again, soon back into the world of plants.

His peace only lasted a few minutes, because suddenly, without any warning whatsoever, a thin spray of ink landed on the back of his parchment and his face and he looked out unbelievingly.

"What the-"

Sherlock sat with his book, seemingly not having moved, but John saw the smirk forming on his friends face.

"Wrong day, Sherlock," was all warning John gave him, before a spray of ink landed on the Slytherin's pale face, just when he looked up in surprise.

Minutes later, they were kicked out of the library by Madame Pince, both their faces sprinkled with blue dots and for once, John agreed that they had done enough studying, so they went to wash their faces and then walked outside to sit at the shore of the lake, watching people while John listened to all the deductions Sherlock made about them.

That, however, was the last peaceful day in the following weeks and both boys were busy with the increased working schedule, seeing as suddenly all teachers had apparently decided to double their amount of homework on top of their already busy afternoons with studying and May became a dreadful month for especially Sherlock, since there was absolutely no time for wandering off to an adventure at any point.

The night before their first exam, the theoretical parts on Charms in the morning and Herbology in the afternoon, Alec set their dorm room on fire while practicing his fire-making charm in a frenzy. The poor boy was still more than bad with that particular charm and despite the attempts of everyone else to calm him down, he worked himself up more and more until he started throwing things into his trunk, planning on running away from the school. It took Greg and John to pin him down on his bed and talk sense into him for almost an hour before he had calmed down enough to think clear again.

Over all that madness, John forgot to be nervous himself and only when he waited with Greg, Sherlock and the other first-years outside the Great Hall it was that he realized they were about to write their first exam. Luckily, he didn't have the time to freak out, because suddenly the doors of the Great Hall opened, the students were led in – everyone to a single table with a bewitched Anti-Cheating-quill and a role of parchment. Professor Flitwick, being nice as always, wished all of them good luck and then let a small piece of candy appear in front of them as so-called comfort food to soothe their nerves.

Before John knew it, the exam was over, and now that he knew what expected him, he was completely calm before the Herbology exam in the afternoon.

Tuesday had the Potions exam awaiting them and both he and Sherlock easily mastered the Forgetfulness Potion they had to brew. The trick with that certain potion causing memory loss was simply not to inhale the fumes coming from the cauldron while brewing it and John thankfully took one of the nose clips Sherlock produced out of the pocket of his trousers.

On Wednesday night, the Astronomy exam took place and John spent over three hours trying to create a map of the stars he could see through the telescope, complete with all their names – to be honest, he had a really bad feeling with this, but at least the combined practical exams on Transfiguration and Charms in the morning gave him some sort of secure feeling.

Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick had decided to mix their practical exams together and had created a small obstacle course, where a pair of students had to work as a team to get through. There was no rule regarding the constellation of the pairings, but both professors looked surprised when John and Sherlock, Gryffindor and Slytherin, stepped through the door of the classroom together. When the two boys saw the obstacles, they couldn't suppress a smirk and they made short work with the unlit torches they had to incinerate to move on, the needles they had to turn into keys to get through a door, the dark alley where they had to light their wands to find their way and finally – and a bit out of context – the pineapples they had to make dancing. Admittedly, Sherlock's pineapple danced more graceful than John's did (it looked like Sherlock's did a waltz while John's just wobbled around in a weird impression of the Macarena), but they both mastered this exam with excellent results.

In the Defence Against the Dark Arts exam on Thursday morning, the students had to knock down vases from pedestals all over the room with the help of the Knockback Jinx and John easily mastered the task, his aim better than even Sherlock's, who told him later that he had missed one vase.

By Thursday afternoon, History of Magic, John was done with all motivation, and when he glanced around the room where the exam was held, he noticed that the others felt the same. Zack seemed to have fallen asleep on his exam, Alec doodled on the back, Mike looked around and rolled his eyes in a sympathetic manner when he met John's and Greg seemed to have a death-glare-contest with his exam, probably trying to kill it just by staring at it.

And then, suddenly, they were done. The first minutes after stepping out of the Great Hall, no one seemed to realize, until a Hufflepuff boy let out an unburdened laughter and ran outside, followed by his friends. Shortly after, the grounds were filled with relieved first-years celebrating the end of their first exams.

X

Sherlock had left John earlier that evening since the Gryffindor wanted to use the extra weekend day to write to his parents and get some things done Sherlock didn't remember, since they seemed too mundane to keep in mind. He was bored to a great extent and not even Auriga could provide entertainment because she was hiding under his bed and sulking since he had ignored her for the past few days due to his exams.

He was lying on his bed and thinking about going to the Potions classrooms to do some experiments, when the door to his dorm opened and Jim poked his head through, smiling a shy smile when he saw Sherlock on his bed.

"Hey… uhm Sherlock?"

The taller boy didn't bother to turn his head – or move at all, for that matter – and just made an affirmative sound. Jim was boring, ordinary and also very nervous all the time; three character treats Sherlock couldn't stand at all.

"If you have nothing else to do-"

"What gives you that impression?" Sherlock knew his behaviour would've been labeled as 'unfriendly' by John, but the Gryffindor was not here.

Jim looked confused. "I mean, you're just lying there and-… well, if you're busy, never mind, I just thought it might have been interesting for you, you know, since you like mysteries and stuff."

Sherlock tried to control his face so it didn't show the sudden interest Jim's word had risen. After all, it might have been good to tell Moriarty and Wilkes that he liked a good mystery to keep his mind busy. Granted, he hadn't told them much about himself or his and Mycroft's mind skills, but his interest in mysteries and brainteasers were not much of a secret anyways, so they had talked about it one day when they were sitting in History of Magic and Sherlock couldn't think of anything else to occupy himself with besides talking to these two. And now, that seemed to have been a good thing to do.

He sat up on his bed and slid down, as if to look for Auriga who was still hiding under it and hissing at him when his eyes found her bright blue ones. For a moment, he contemplated trying to get her out from her hideout and send her to John with instructions to meet him, but it was highly unlikely that John would stop writing to his family or folding socks or doing whatever other people usually did when they couldn't occupy themselves with experiments or their mind palace, so he abandoned that idea and instead just grabbed his wand and walked over to the door. Jim waited for him with a smile.

"It's on the third floor, come on, I'll show you."

"What is 'it' exactly?" Sherlock asked as he followed Moriarty out of the common room, of course aware of the watchful eyes of Mycroft following him from his seat next to the fireplace, where he sat surrounded by two boys and a girl, who all looked equally superior and smug like the elder Holmes did.

"I can't really describe it, I'm not sure- you'll better look at it yourself," came Moriarty's instant answer and Sherlock didn't even fight the urge to roll his eyes at that incompetence. He was by now used to people describing things insufficient and not reliably, but usually, they tried, no matter how bad they were at it. Moriarty obviously didn't even try, so he was probably worse than the others.

They passed a lot of students on their way to the third floor, seeing as it was almost time for supper and everyone was making a pilgrimage to the Great Hall, and so Sherlock's and Jim's way took longer than expected, seeing as they were the only ones going against the stream of students.

When they'd finally reached the third floor, instead of going left towards the Hospital wing and the Charms corridor, they turned right and passed an unlocked door, leading them towards a lengthy corridor that seemed be a dead end. Except-

"Where does that trap door lead?"

Jim looked unsure. "I don't know. All I know is that it wasn't there yesterday and when I came past here today, it was there. I thought you might be interested."

Instead of answering, Sherlock already stepped closer and gave the door a tentative pull. When it didn't open, he made a face and then took out his wand, mumbling "Alohomora". The door made a clicking sound and Sherlock smirked to himself before pulling again, this time able to open the door. He was greeted with a wave of stale, but cold air and a smell that reminded him of the glass houses where the Herbology lessons took place; however it was dark in there and he couldn't see a thing, even after lighting the tip of his wand. He leaned a bit forward, tried to get a better look, and just when he meant to turn and ask Moriarty to light his wand, too, he heard a weird rustling sound and then footsteps close to him before a hand pressed down on his back and he was pushed over the edge and down the trap-door, not able to suppress a surprised yelp.

He didn't fell long and when he collided with a surface, it was soft and a bit spongy. For a moment, he lay in complete darkness, catching his breath again and moving his hand around to find his wand, of which he had let go during his tumble through the darkness, but all he could feel was the damp, rough surface he was laying on. And then, something closed around his left wrist and when he tried to sit up, something else curled itself around his torso and ankles.

_Dampness. Spongy surface. Smell of a glass house._

When the tentacles tightened around his chest and started to pull, Sherlock knew he had minutes before he would die.

X

"Sherlock skipping supper again?" Mike asked with a look to the Slytherin table and the spot at the very end of it where the young genius usually sat. It was not occupied.

John looked up from his plate, fork halfway to his mouth, and raised an eyebrow. "Looks like it. Haven't seen him since afternoon – he said he was going to do some experiments."

"Mh-" Greg tried to speak but had to swallow first before something coherent left his mouth, "I saw him on the stairs to the third corridor about 10 minutes ago. He was with that rat-like kid…Moriarty or something?"

The blond made a face. "Moriarty? Last time the two were together Sherlock ended up with a broken nose." He poked at a bit of his sausage, but really, he had lost his appetite. Usually, the Slytherin was capable of dealing with things in his own, but he always managed to get into some sort of trouble. And it was usually John who was there when that was the case.

"You're acting like a mother hen," Zack told him, happily chewing on his own sausage and eyeing John's plate, seeing as the blond hat put down his cutlery.

John just rolled his eyes. "That's because he seems to need one. I'll better go and have a look what he's doing. Third floor, you said?" he asked Greg and his friend nodded.

"Do you want me to come with you?"

He declined Greg's offer and then got up, hurrying out of the hall – he didn't feel particularly hungry anymore, and there was a weird feeling in his stomach, as if something was not right, but he desperately hoped it would prove itself wrong and he would make it back in time for dessert.

The hallways were deserted and even the people in the portraits seemed to be busy with having supper, some paintings having over wizards from neighbor-portraits, and a lot of them called things after John, most of them asking why he wasn't in the Great Hall and one particularly cheeky portrait of an old witch with a hat that looked suspiciously as if a cat had just chosen to rest on her head called after him: "You're so short, you really should eat more – maybe you'll grow another inch or two!"

He walked a bit faster until he'd reached the third floor and came to a crossing, but then he was really out of ideas where to go. He'd called out, but had gotten no answer, no one was around and even the portraits couldn't remember Sherlock or Jim. Just when he'd decided to go to the Hospital wing and see if Sherlock had already ended up there, something touched his leg and he startled a bit, before recognizing Auriga rubbing up against him.

"Do you know where Sherlock is?" he asked and bent down to quickly stroke her back, and she meowed once before strutting towards a half-ajar door and looking back to John.

"But… there's nothing there…" John wondered, remembering that the corridor behind that door was a dead end. Auriga, however, seemed determined that he'd follow, so he pushed open the door and walked through. She ran ahead, darting her bright blue eyes back at him ever so often to make sure he was still there, and finally John could see where the cat was heading to. It was a large trap door, right in the middle of the corridor, where he was sure there hadn't been a trap door when he'd walked past that corridor a week ago.

The door was open wide, but all he could see was darkness, even when he lit his wand. He gave the cat, who'd sat down on the wooden cover of the hole in the ground, a look with raised eye-brows. "Sherlock is down there? Are you sure?"

John hadn't known that cats could look _that_ dismissive, but of course, if one cat could, then it would be Sherlock's. He huffed. "Of course, that's a Sherlock-y thing to do. Jump down holes in the floor." He bent over a little. "Sherlock?"

There was no answer, but something seemed to move in the darkness. He tried again. "Sherlock?!"

This time, he was sure something like a moan drifted up the dark tunnel and his eyes widened while he grabbed his wand tightly. "SHERLOCK, I'M COMING!" And without over-thinking it, he slipped into the darkness, legs first, hoping that wherever the hole led to, he wouldn't end up breaking every bone in his body.

X

The fall wasn't even that long and John was more than surprised when he landed on something spongy instead of hard concrete or marble. For a moment, he was disoriented, but then he remembered the wand in his hand and mumbled "Lumos", watching the light brighten the room and his surroundings. And boy, what surroundings there were.

The walls were damp and dark, with tendrils of a plant slowly creeping up on them, and the same plant was what John was sitting on, covering the whole ground in thick, dark green tentacles. It was only now that John noticed the smell, very much alike to the glass houses on the grounds. The only thing the room _lacked_ was Sherlock. What it didn't lack, however, was the evidence of Sherlock's presence not that far away – because a familiar, ebony wand was poking out between the roots covering the floor.

Just when John reached out and his fingers closed around the second wand, he heard the muffled moan again and his eyes darted around quickly, trying to locate the source – his eyes widened in horror when he realized it was coming from _below_, from somewhere between the plants.

"SHERLOCK?!"

Now, for the first time since he heard the moans, he could actually make out sounds, and he breathed out in relief when he recognized the Slytherin's voice calling out his name. He tried to scramble to his feet and crawl towards the voice, when he felt that he couldn't move his legs. He lowered his wand a bit and witnessed how thin, but strong tendrils of the plant had curled around his legs and were currently crawling up his body, simultaneously pulling him down, deep into the roots.

He felt the panic rise in his head and tried to stay calm. "The plants are pulling me down – what do I do?!"

His worries about his friend ebbed away a bit when he could hear an actual groan, followed by the very muffled answer of "They're _plants_, John!"

Suddenly, the Gryffindor saw a vivid image of a gazing fire licking up the trees and spider nets in the Forbidden Forest and, in a roar, he yanked up his arm, breaking free from the roots that had already crept up all the way to his neck and called out "INCENDIO!", pointing both wands towards the middle of the room and watching blue and red flames sputtering out from his own holly wood wand and Sherlock's ebony one.

Then, everything happened too fast for him to process. A hissing sound filled the room and the tendrils and roots around his body flinched away, while they simultaneously disappeared from below him, sending him into a free fall – although it was admittedly rather short, too short for him to even scream – and then he landed on his butt, this time on hard marble, knocking the air out of him and sending tears to his eyes when he landed directly on his tail bone, while, a few meters to his left, a second slumping sound was audible, accompanied with a groan.

"Well…" John heard Sherlock's voice coming through the darkness, a bit more high-pitched and breathy than usual, "that was tedious."

John couldn't believe his ears. "That was-ahh-" – he was still trying to catch his breath and blink away the tears – "tedious? Tedious?! That bloody plant tried to eat us!"

Rustling of clothes was the only answer and then footsteps were coming closer. He had enough presence of mind to lit his wand again, and he saw a very disheveled looking Sherlock standing inches away, looking down at him with a somewhat reprimanding look on his face (although the constant blinking at the sudden light reduced the impact of the look quite a bit).

"It's Devil's Snare, it didn't try to eat us, it only tried to suffocate us."

For a moment, John was not sure if he could believe his ears but Sherlock looked absolutely serious. "It ONLY tried to suffocate us – well, that's a relief, then! Tell me – what would you have done if I hadn't come to look for you? I found you wand poking out from between the roots-" he held out the ebony piece of wood and Sherlock's fingers closed around it slowly, "-you lost it, you were already covered in plant, so what would you have done?!" He scrambled to his feet, staring into Sherlock's eyes, his wand painting deep shadows on the Slytherin's face.

"I would've died. From suffocation, obviously."

The tone Sherlock used made John shiver. It was so casual, and just full of acceptance. Like Sherlock had actually at least considered that to be a possible outcome. He couldn't help himself and took hold of Sherlock's left arm. "Don't talk like that. I showed up, and neither of us died, alright?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in confusion. "I don't see how not talking about it changes it, but yes, you came. And I appreciate it."

That was probably the closest thing to a thank you John would get, so he just let go of Sherlock and lifted his wand a bit, eyeing the ceiling. He could see two holes in the plants, where he and Sherlock had fallen through, and through the holes the dancing of a few flames was visible, although the majority of them had died down already.

"How are we going to get up and out again?"

"Well, we could try and climb up the roots…" Sherlock's voice drifted off, something uncharacteristically for him, but when John turned to look at his friends, he realized what had caught the other boys' attention. A passageway led away from the chamber they'd landed in.

Sherlock turned to grin at him. "Or we could follow that passageway. See where it leads to."

"A dark passageway that probably leads to even more dangerous things after we just survived a deadly plant? We probably shouldn't-"

"And yet you're interested."

"I blame you."

"Of course. Now, shall we?"

John rolled his eyes and, rubbing at his lower back with a grimace, followed Sherlock into the passageway.

It was a wet place, with the corridor slanting downwards and water running down the stone walls.

"How did you even end up down here?" John finally asked, when the urge to do so became overpowering.

"I was pushed."

The Gryffindor suddenly needed to fight the anger rising inside. "Moriarty pushed you down here?!"

That actually surprised Sherlock. "How did you know it was Moriarty?"

"Greg saw you two heading to the third floor. So I am right? Moriarty pushed you?!"

"It seems so, yes," was Sherlock's short answer, but inside the genius' head, something entirely else was going on.

_The rustling of clothes shortly before he was being pushed and the force of the push, as well as the placement of the hand on his back – way too high and strong for a small boy like Jim Moriarty._

"When we get out of here, I'll go to Professor McGonagall – I don't care if you're friends with him or not, Sherlock, he pushed you down here, he's dangerous!" John's fury mildly interested Sherlock, but seeing as he already knew the other boy was very loyal and seemed to value the concept of friendship high, an act like Moriarty's obviously highly disturbed and angered him.

However, before the topic could be discussed more, they entered a room with torches along the walls that instantly flickered to life when the two boys set foot inside. The sight silenced both of them for a minute.

The chamber had a ceiling with high arches and lots of pillars, and a wooded door at the opposite of the room – well, the remains of a wooden door, at least. The archway of the door looked like a bomb ripped it apart, with pieces of stone and splinters of wood covering the floor in front of it. The most horrifiying sight, though, was the floor, or the lack thereof. Where John and Sherlock believed marble tiles, all they could see were winged beings, most of them lifeless, and only a few of them feeble flapping their wings.

Before Sherlock could even move, John rushed to the very next moving creature on the ground, and his eyes widened when he didn't find a bird or something like that, but a key, dull and rusty, but winged; faintly moving.

"It's keys, Sherlock – millions of keys!"

"Yes. And someone obviously got impatient while searching for the right one to use on that door," the Slytherin boy stated and carefully moved through the room, avoiding to step on the keys on the ground, but steadily making his way over to the remains of the door.

The key to John's feet moved one more time, actually lifting off the ground a bit, before clattering on the floor, producing a bright sound that sounded overly loud in John's ears. Then, it didn't move again.

John got to his feet, feeling a bit sick. Even though he realized that the keys were not actual living beings, they were still enchanted in some way, and the scenery reminded him very much of a battlefield with the ground covered in dead or dying soldiers. It also didn't help that Sherlock was going through the keys on the ground with a determined look, until he suddenly bent down and picked one up, holding it out for John to see.

Unwillingly, the Gryffindor made his way over to his friend and looked at the key in his hands.

"That's the one that was supposed to unlock the door – see, judging by the remains of the lock, it was easy to figure out the size and material of the key, and seeing as its wings are disarranged and plucked, it's obvious that people caught it before to use it on the door."

At these words, the large silver key flapped its bright blue – and indeed disheveled looking – wings once, before stopping the movement and trying it again. John wasn't sure, but it looked a lot like the key was in pain.

"Show some compassion, Sherlock," John stated quietly and, having come to a decision, pointing his wand at the key. "Reparo!"

With a shudder, the plucked wings rearranged themselves and straightened a bit, while the movement made the key shiver a bit in Sherlock's palm.

"But it's just keys!"

"I don't care!" John stared at his friend. "Someone just blew them up, when the only thing he had to do was find the right one – I don't know if they're really alive or can die or whatever, but they were supposed to fly and now they're just… keys. Lifeless. No one has the right to decide over the lives of other people or, well, things."

Sherlock looked absolutely puzzled, but both were distracted when the key moved again. It flapped its wings once, twice, and finally, it lifted of Sherlock's palms and moved over to John, where it seemed to lose its strength again and dropped out of the air, caught by John in the last moment. Then it stilled.

"I think it's dead."

"It was never alive in the first place, John," Sherlock corrected him, but it was without conviction. Even he didn't seem to be sure of it now.

"I… uhm, I thought I'd fixed it." John felt incredibly sad.

"Maybe," Sherlock cleared his throat, "maybe you made it easier for it to, uhm, die. Painless."

John knew that Sherlock was stepping out his comfort zone by saying it, maybe he didn't believe it himself, but the fact alone that he tried to comfort John was enough to make the Gryffindor smile, a small, but very honest smile. "Yes, maybe." He looked at the key one more time, before carefully closing his fingers around it. "I think I'll keep it. You know, as a reminder."

Sherlock only nodded and then turned, making his way through the destroyed archway, while John followed, with one last look back. He knew he couldn't help all the keys, and maybe they weren't even alive, but he still felt bad about them and realized that becoming a doctor was still something he really wanted.

In the next room, no torches came to live, and the whole room had a creepy atmosphere about it, the light of their two wands creating deep shadows around them and the black-and-white checkered floor seemed more than odd to John, especially when he stumbled across the head of a black marble figure. A few steps further, he found the rest of the statue, the body sitting on a pedestal. It looked very familiar to John, but he couldn't put his finger on it, until Sherlock stated: "This is a giant chess board."

John realized Sherlock was right and stretched out his arm with the wand as wide as he could, turning on the spot to take in everything around him. Now that he know what it was, he could actually figure out that he'd stumbled over the head of a black knight, while the rest of the figure was standing next to him now. There were only destroyed figures on the board, but some figures were missing, so someone must've taken the intact figures away.

"Do you think whoever blew up the keys did that to the chess pieces, too?"

Sherlock shook his head and then explained: "It's wizard chess, the pieces are alive when you play, that's why they look so devastated. But since there are figures missing, whoever created the chess took away the remaining undamaged pieces and just left the destroyed ones here. No one has played this game in a long time – see, it's all dusty."

"Then let's go. I don't like it here."

"You had no problem with walking through a forest inhabited by dangerous creatures, but you're scared by chess pieces?" Sherlock snorted.

"Hey, don't argue with the boy who saved your rich little ass," John bit back and walked straight past Sherlock, leaving the Slytherin and the creepy chess pieces behind. Rushed footsteps indicated that Sherlock was following after a few seconds.

They could smell the next chamber before actually reaching it, and although John felt like retching, they didn't find anything in the chamber but a large club discarded in one corner of the room. The only sign of whatever inhabited the room before was the stink and both boys agreed silently to skip through this chamber as fast as possible. They stumbled into the next room, hands pressed in front of their faces, and not aware that they weren't alone anymore until a blazing fire roared up behind them in the doorstep and a low voice addressed them. "Hello, boys."

X

Sherlock noticed quite a few things in the first seconds. Firstly, although they had a fire roaring behind them, he didn't feel any heat – but still there was no doubt trying to step through it would be lethal. Second, instead of startling, John's hand tightened around his wand instead. Thirdly, the smaller boy made a step forward and straightened his back, trying to look taller than he was and, in the movement, probably unconsciously, trying to cover Sherlock's body a bit. And fourth, the male who'd greeted them had the matching height and probably strength to be his attacker when he was being pushed down the trap door.

"What did you do to Jim?"

The man looked delighted. "Ah, how did you figure out it was me? Did I do something to give the charade away?"

"When you pushed me down the trap door, you touched my back higher than Jim would've been able to, at least if he wanted to muster up enough strength to send me down. It had to be someone taller. You used Polyjuice Potion, I suppose?"

"Wait what-" John interrupted, his eyes darting between Sherlock and the older man sitting at a small table, "he pushed? And what's Polyjuice Potion?"

However, both males ignored him, the eyes of the stranger fixated on Sherlock. "Yes, obviously. And don't worry, Jim is fine. He's hidden in the broom cupboard in the Entrance Hall, petrified."

"So Moriarty didn't have to do anything with it?" John tried again, but still, neither of the others noticed him.

"And why all of this? Why push me down a trap door, sending me down here, if you could've killed me right in the dorms?" Sherlock now slowly stepped closer to the table, past John, who stared at him unbelieving, but he only had eyes for the older man. In fact, it was not only an _older_ man, but an old man, about 60, in battered, but at least clean, clothes, with glasses on his nose and a hat on his head. He didn't look much like an evil person, but more like a grandpa. Now, he smiled.

"Just think about it, Mr. Holmes. Think about it. Why can't people just think, huh?"

"Uh, I'm still here, yeah?" John tried one last time, slightly annoyed, but still, Sherlock did not respond. Instead, he eyed the old man for a bit and then smiled.

"Ah, I see. You're a genius, too, like me. You wanted to see if I'd get past the Devil's Snare and to you."

"Two geniuses? Blimey…" John mumbled, by now used to being ignored. Instead, he opted to try (and fail) to think of an escape route.

The old man replied, sounding disappointed and angry: "Yes. And you proved to be not quite as extraordinary as I thought. If it weren't for your friend, you'd be dead already."

At first, John didn't react, seeing as he really didn't count on being acknowledged by either of the others by now, but then he realized the man was referring to him. And, with a certain pride, he found the man's words to be true. He had saved Sherlock's ass, after all.

Sherlock probably tried to protest, but the man cut him off. "Well, you'll get one more chance to prove yourself. One last game, to see if you're really as smart as you claim to be." The man reached into his jacket and pulled out two vials. They looked the same, and the liquid inside looked alike, too. He placed them on the table.

"You get to chose. One of them will cause memory loss, so severe that you will forget everything, until you even forget to breathe. The other one just tastes nice. Chose one and drink it."

John wasn't sure what all of this was about, but he was annoyed beyond compare and angry about the old man, so he stepped next to Sherlock and pointed his wand at the man. True, he didn't know much spells that could actually harm or at least stop someone, but they were two young people against one old man; surely, they could overpower him. "Sherlock is not going to drink any of that and you are letting us go right now!" he demanded, actually sounding calmer than he felt.

The old man gave him a sympathetic smile and while John still wondered what this was about, the man pulled out something from his pocket and threw it at John in a surprisingly quick motion, and John felt how his whole body tensed up, suddenly unable to move.

"I'm sorry," the man told him. "But it's necessary. This is a thing between geniuses – no offence. Now, back to you-" he turned to Sherlock again. "You will drink one of these potions."

Sherlock stared back with an emotionless face. "Why? What's in there for me?"

The man laughed. "Well, you get to live. And so does young Mr. Watson here." He paused for a moment. "Oh, and I forgot to mention the best part – no matter which vial you chose, I'll drink the other one."

"And of course you know which one's the Forgetfulness Potion?"

"Yes."

Sherlock eyed both vials for a moment, then he leaned back, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "I could just de-petrify John and we could overpower you. The game you're proposing is nothing more than that – a game; chance. It has nothing to do with logic."

The old man looked miserably now, and reached inside his jacket once more, pulling out a wand.

"I was hoping not to use this, but I'd really recommend you to choose a vial. Otherwise, I'd have to end you with this-" he waved his wand a bit, "and I'd rather not do that."

"It's still just chance."

"No it's not. It's chess. I'll make a move-" the man reached out and pushed one of the vials towards Sherlock, "-and now it's your turn. Did I just give you the good or the bad vial?"

John desperately fought against the spell, trying to move any limb, but he just couldn't and he had to watch how Sherlock leaned forward and studied the old man's face intently. Then, he smiled triumphantly. "I won't play the game. It's still chance, no matter what you say. Kill me." And with that, he spread his arms open wide, eyes locked on the man.

The worst part was that John screamed in his mind, he wanted to do something, didn't want to watch how his friend was being killed by this crazy old man. Also, he didn't want to die himself, but right now, the immediate danger was on Sherlock.

For a minute or so, nothing happened. Sherlock stood there, his arms stretched open wide, and the old man just pointed his wand on him, not moving or speaking. Finally, a tight smile appeared on the Slytherin's face and he lowered his arms.

"You won't kill me. In fact, you _can't_ kill me. You're a squib."

The old man nodded, accepting his defeat with a smile. "So you are as smart as they say. Go on, de-petrify your friend."

Sherlock didn't hesitate and mumbled the spell that released John's limbs. As soon as he felt the pressure gone from his body, the blond rushed to Sherlock's side, wand pointing to the old man.

"I don't know what your deal is, but this is over now. Someone explain me what a squib is and then we'll leave and you are following us to Professor McGonagall!" He realized that this probably didn't sound half as intimidating as he planned on, but seeing as Sherlock deemed the old man for not dangerous, he felt a bit more secure about giving orders.

"A squib is a person whose parents are wizards, but he himself has no magical abilities whatsoever. It's much rarer than wizards born from Muggle parents, and yet, it happens," the old man himself explained readily, a calm expression on his face. "As for your wish to follow you, I don't think it's going to happen. I'm dying; in fact, I'll be dead in minutes, so there really is no need for me to get up once more."

"What do you mean, you're dying?!" Despite hating the man, John did also worry for him – a natural reaction if someone told you he was dying soon.

"He has nothing to lose, that's why he wanted to play this game," Sherlock, who had been quiet until now, stated. "A curse?" he inquired.

The man nodded, and added: "Well played, Mr. Holmes. If you wait another ten minutes, the flames will die down and you can exit the way you came. Now, if you'd be so kind as to leave me alone for a while?"

With one last look into the man's eyes, Sherlock nodded and then grabbed John's arm, guiding him away from the table and towards the second doorway of the room that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.

"What are you doing, Sherlock?" John hissed, unwillingly walking along. "Are we just going to trust him and leave him alone? What if this is a trap?"

"It's not. We're going to leave him alone until he's dead-"

"Mr. Holmes?" The voice of the man stopped them both in their tracks. They looked back over their shoulders. "Just out of curiosity – to see if I you could've done it – which vial would you have chosen?"

Sherlock only hesitated for a moment, before answering: "The one you pushed towards me."

The man raised an eyebrow. "Really? Interesting…" He picked up the vial in front of him and undid the cork. "Shall we?"

This was the moment John sprung into action. Before Sherlock could even ponder going back and taking the vial, John fired a Knockback Jinx at the table, sending the remaining vial to the ground where it burst and the liquid splashed on the ground, leaving nothing but a wet stain.

When Sherlock drew breath to doubtlessly chastise him for doing so, the old man suddenly twitched and his face contorted in pain. The two boys rushed over, but the man had already toppled over and fallen from the chair, now lying on his side, eye clothes and fists clenched. He groaned low and it was obvious that the curse had hit, but Sherlock nevertheless kneeled down and grabbed him by his shoulders, asking: "You didn't plan this all on your own – who do you work for? What's your name?!" He shook the man and John pulled his friend back horrified, calling: "Sherlock, let him go, he's dying!"

He managed to pull the taller boy back a bit, who stared at the man on the ground in a distress and anger, panting a bit and eyes hard.

The man called out in pain, doubling over a bit, before he managed to turn his head and look right back at Sherlock. "The name's… aah, is Black- and… aah, and it's all part of… urgh… a… a greater game."

John felt Sherlock fight against his grip, but the man's head sunk back down on the floor and with one last cry, he stilled, obviously dead.

For a moment, both boys looked at the body in shock – neither of them had seen a corpse before, and even if the man had tried to kind-of-kill Sherlock (or possibly both of them), they were shocked at his sudden and rather violent death. Finally, John knelt down and slowly reached out for the man's neck, feeling for a pulse like he had been taught to do in a first-aid-lesson in primary school. It felt strange, touching someone dead, but he needed to make sure.

"He's dead," he stated and got up again, looking at Sherlock. The Slytherin, despite acting really tough all the time and seemingly facing the man without fear, looked unnaturally pale, and all the frenzy from before seemed long gone. He looked more like a normal 12-year-old than John had ever seen him before.

"Are you alright?" John asked carefully, and his voice dragged Sherlock's attention away from the body and to himself. The Slytherin shook his head once before speaking up.

"I, uhm, yes, I'm alright. Of course I am. We should… we should take a look to the next room."

From the way Sherlock only built half-sentences and repeated words (something he obviously detested when hearing from other people, as John had come to learn), John was sure Sherlock was not okay and for a brief moment he wondered why he was not as shocked as Sherlock was, but maybe that was going to come later. For now, doing what Sherlock proposed seemed to be the only logical thing to do, seeing as the flames in the way back where only dying down slowly, and so John turned away from the body and walked towards the other doorway, Sherlock next to him.

"What did that mean? His last words to you?" John asked as they stepped through the doorway into the next room.

Sherlock took a deep breath, the last sign of his distress, before answering, sounding already almost completely like himself again. "The first part was obviously his name. And for the second… I'm not sure as of yet."

John looked satisfied, but Sherlock was already thinking about going through his family tree at home. If the man had not been lying about his last name, there was already another mystery waiting to be solved.

X

The room was long, with steps leading further down into it and the torches lining the walls dipped it into a warm golden light. It was a peaceful area, and there seemed to be no apparent threat present. Sherlock and John were the only living beings, no creatures or other persons awaited them and the only thing that was of interest was a large mirror standing in the middle of the room, at the foot of the steps.

Sherlock looked disappointed. "A mirror."

John was not so quick with his disappointment and actually felt smarter than Sherlock for once – obviously, if the mirror was that well guarded, it had to be special, seeing as it was the only thing in the room other than torches and the floor. He tentatively moved down the stairs, closely followed by Sherlock.

"Look, there's an engraving on the frame- "John got on the tip of his toes and narrowed his eyes, until he could read: "'Mirror of Erised'… and then… some gibberish…"

_Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi_

Now Sherlock's attention was caught, too, and he leaned in, eying the seemingly haphazardly sequence of letters under the name of the mirror. Suddenly, his face lit up. "Oh, it's so obvious, John!"

Apparently, it wasn't obvious that it wasn't obvious to John, and after waiting for a minute for John to figure it out, too, Sherlock huffed and then explained: "It's mirror writing – oh, I love this! See, if you read it backwards, it says 'I show not your face but your hearts desire'."

That actually rang a bell in John's mind and then he realized that he, indeed, had heard of that mirror before – in a book about legendary magical objects Alec had gotten for Christmas. John had looked up the Deathly Hallows in there, too, after his and Sherlock's adventure in the Forbidden Forest, and it also held a chapter about a magical mirror which description seemed to match the mirror in front of them.

"It shows us nothing more or less than the deepest, most desperate desire of our hearts."

Sherlock looked up from where he was running his fingers over the wood of the frame. "I'm sorry?"

"I read about that mirror in a book, and that's the description I remember. 'It shows us nothing more or less than the deepest, most desperate desire of our hearts' – it's a quote by Albus Dumbledore."

"Well, I think it's broken," the Slytherin stated then and John looked at him confused. Sherlock pointed to the glass surface. "Look, we've been standing in front of it for a few minutes now, but all I can see is our reflections."

Suddenly realizing that Sherlock was right, John looked into the glass, too, but just like his friend, all he could see was their reflections; his own staring back at him while Sherlock looked at him through the mirror, too. They didn't look any different, although they were both dirty – courtesy of sliding through the Devil's Snare probably – and Sherlock sported a small cut on his right cheek from when the squib man had bucked and lashed out before he died.

"Turn to me," John ordered and lifted his wand, carefully holding it close to Sherlock's face, drawing a circle and bopping it while mumbling "Episkey" and smiling when the cut closed neatly, not a trace of it left.

Sherlock turned back to the mirror and let two fingers wander over his newly-fixed cheek. "That's interesting. Where did you learn that?"

John shrugged. "I saw Madame Pomfrey use it on Zack when he had cut his lip, so I looked it up in the library because I thought it might be useful."

The Slytherin nodded in agreement and then straightened, turning around. "I suppose we can leave now, there's nothing of interest in here."

The blond agreed and turned two, climbing the stairs next to Sherlock, starting to feel the fatigue from the exhaustion of the evening. "How do we get up and past the Devil's Snare?" he asked, while they made their way up the stairs.

"I saw some brooms in the room with the keys, we can take them," came Sherlock's instant reply and John nodded, content with not having to climb up a deadly plant on top of all that had happened.

What neither of them saw when they walked away from the mirror, was, that the Mirror of Erised was in fact not broken, but worked the way it was supposed to. Because while real-Sherlock-and-John walked away and up the stairs again next to each other, mirror-Sherlock-and-John did the same thing – although they changed during their walk, at first barely visible, but then mirror-Sherlock grew quite a bit, while mirror-John only managed another few inches, but became more muscled instead, a more compact figure next to the now ridiculously tall Sherlock, wearing a long coat and a blue scarf. And as now grown-up mirror-Sherlock-and-John walked away, their hands dangling between them brushed ever so often, until real-Sherlock-and-John disappeared from the range of the magic mirror and mirror-Sherlock-and-John disappeared, too. Together.

* * *

_Don't sue me, I kind of borrowed the taxi driver from 'A Study in Pink'. Also, p__oor Jim, stuffed into a cupboard. Someone should probably go and get him._  
**_DISCLAIMER: Neither Johnlock nor Hogwarts belong to me, sadl_y.  
**_**  
**_


	5. Interlude: Summer Break

_This is just a quick interlude on the summer break. __I lay more stress on the actual school years, that's why this is so short._**  
**

* * *

The way back was not even that hard, at least not physically. The harder part was passing the dead squib again. Neither Sherlock nor John looked at him and just hurried out of the room, but not without shivering. Sherlock now walked a bit in front of John, wand lit, and the Gryffindor followed through the stinking chamber and the abandoned chess board naturally.

In the chamber of the keys, he hesitated in the doorway, though, just for a moment, and Sherlock turned to look at him, face, as so often, unreadable, but he raised his arm a bit, as if to hold out his hand for John. He stopped mid-motion, though, as if he'd realized what he'd been doing and instead mumbled: "Come on," before walking over to a corner, where three broomsticks were lying. John followed this time, and although he walked alone, he did appreciate Sherlock's implied gesture, even if the Slytherin had stopped himself. It was nice to know Sherlock actually cared for him enough to think of what this room did to his mind and think of a way to comfort and help him, even although he didn't carry out any action. Then again, John would've probably felt weird taking his hand – he'd faced greater danger or fear (a suffocating plant, a three-headed dog, giant spiders, a mad squib) already to not be able to handle some… keys.

And yet, Sherlock's display of care had cheered him up a bit.

They easily lifted off the ground with the broomsticks, although they looked rather old and shabby, and the Devil's Snare turned out to be, well, sulking, for the lack of better words, and didn't even bother to move when they made their way up through the two small holes where they'd fallen through earlier that evening.

Auriga meowed happily when her owner and John showed up from the trap door and they closed the door – John insisting on locking it – before making their way back to the staircases.

Luckily, they hadn't been away for too long, so none of the other's suspected anything when John showed up in the dorm again, although they did give him weird looks seeing as he was dirty and looked exhausted, but he just blamed it on some experiment of Sherlock before disappearing into the shower and soon fell asleep on his bed.

It was only the next morning that someone found Jim Moriarty, petrified in the broom cupboard in the Entrance Hall, and John and Sherlock exchanged glances, John definitely with more remorse about forgetting about Jim than Sherlock. But seeing as Jim couldn't tell who'd petrified him and put in the cupboard, the whole situation cooled down soon and everyone thought of it as a prank.

Time flew by after that, and at the feast at the end of term, the house cup went to Ravenclaw, with Gryffindor in second place, Slytherin in third and Hufflepuff in fourth. John was sure Gryffindor could've won if he hadn't lost the 50 points for sneaking off into the Forest, and he swore to himself that he would make up for that next year.

The exam results were announced shortly later and besides Astronomy, which John as well as Sherlock only managed with the lowest score possible, and History of Magic, in which basically everyone was lousy, both boys got excellent results; they both got full marks for the combined Transfiguration/Charms obstacle course, John was a bit better in Defence Against the Dark Arts, while Sherlock got a slightly better score on his Potions exam, but overall, they were very content.

Even Alec, who had dreaded the obstacle course score was relieved when he heard he had passed, even although his Fire-Making Charm had gone wrong again.

And then, the term was over, the students packed their things together, and the Hogwarts express left Hogsmeade at the 20th of June for summer holidays.

Sherlock, John and the rest of his dorm had a pleasant time on the train, stuffing themselves with loads of candy, holding their heads out of the windows so the wind could mess them up – Sherlock was forced by John and Greg and looked like a grumpy floor mop afterwards – and teaching the two Muggle-born how to play wizard chess.

John and Sherlock exchanged quick glances, but none of the other's noticed since they were too busy cheering on Sherlock, who basically wiped the board with John's and Mike's (who had teamed up since John was new to the game) white pieces.

When they arrived at King's Cross, they said their goodbye's, with the promises of letters over the summer and a threat of John to Sherlock to stay in touch, before they ran off to greet their parents. John watched Sherlock disappear in the crowd before he went looking for his mother. He was almost sad that he wouldn't see his friends for two months, but he knew they would stay in touch – and there were six years laying ahead, filled with adventures, friendship and lots of surprises.

But for now, the chapter on Hogwarts closed for the summer.

X

John's first letter arrived about a week after they'd said their goodbyes at the Hogwarts Express. Like Sherlock had requested, Athena arrived late in the night, but he was up anyways, so it wasn't a problem. He let her in and she instantly sat down on the windowsill, next to where Auriga was sleeping contently.

Sherlock finished an experiment involving Bubotuber pus, a smelly, thick, yellowish-green liquid that had stained the carpet in Sherlock's room more than once. It was difficult to handle, but his mother had threatened that she'd take all his equipment from his room if he wasn't more careful, so he had to finish it before reading John's letter.

He managed to handle the pus without spilling too much – granted, one corner of the carpet got stained a bit more and smouldered a bit when the pus burnt through the fabric, but Sherlock simply put a pile of books on top of it to hide it. With a bit of luck, his mother wouldn't find out about it until he left for Hogwarts again. To be honest, the whole experimenting would've been much easier if he was allowed to use his wand, but since he was too young, he had to handle everything without it.

Finally, he sat down on his bed and unrolled the parchment that had been attached to Athena's foot.

_"Sherlock,_

_I hope you got this letter at a time convenient for you (geez I sound like you, don't I?). Anyways, it's really weird to be at home again, especially since I can't use my wand. The first few days, I carried it around because I was so used to it, but now I've placed it next to a stone I found in the Forbidden Forest and the key from the chamber. My mum asked me about it, and I told her some weird story about it – I don't like lying to her, but somehow I think she wouldn't like it if she knew you and I nearly got killed twice.  
She asks about you and the others a lot and suggested you all came over in the summer, but I guess there's time left until that, since we're going on vacation first – Italy! We're leaving in four days, and I hope I can figure out how to send you a postcard (dad doesn't want me to take Athena with us, but I mean, I can't let her live by herself for two weeks, now, can I?)  
What are your plans for the summer? Anything interesting happening in the wizarding world?_

_Take care,_  
_John"_

Once again, Sherlock had the weird feeling of John's presence in his room, just by reading the letter, and he found that the absence of the shorter boy was unpleasant. He replied quickly and sent the letter back not putting too much thought in it – it wasn't like he could keep the owl at the manor for too long, or his parents would get suspicious.

He already knew Mycroft talked to their mother about him, but he couldn't be sure just how much she knew – and even if she was alright with John's owl, his father and the rest of the family, prying people that poked their noses into things that were none of their business, needed to be kept at bay, at least if Sherlock could have his way.

X

Two weeks later, it was the middle of July now and unbearably hot in the Holmes' Manor, Athena showed up again. Unfortunately, Mycroft was in his room when the little owl came flying straight through the double window that had been opened in the hope of some cool night air providing a relief of the heat and of course the elder Holmes recognized the animal instantly.

"What has John been up to?" Mycroft asked, eyeing the owl interestedly, while Sherlock didn't look up from the large role of parchment he had rolled out on his bed.

"Family vacation, in Italy."

Athena flapped through the room when no one moved to untie the letter from her foot, and chirped in annoyance.

"She doesn't like to be ignored," the older brother noticed.

"Neither does John."

Mycroft smiled. "Point taken." He moved over to take the letter, but Athena glared at him and hopped out of reach.

"Another thing they have in common," Sherlock stated, still without looking up, "a healthy mistrust towards you."

"I wonder when that stops being funny," Mycroft replied dryly.

Sherlock grinned and, finally, raised his eyes from the parchment. "Never."

Instead of leaving, however, Mycroft sat down on a chair and watched his younger brother a while, before Sherlock looked up in annoyance again. He had taken the letter from Athena's leg and the owl had made herself comfortable on the windowsill again, and there was really no reason for Mycroft to bother him any longer. "Shouldn't you be doing something else? Bother mummy? Or write your girlfriend?"

"Don't be childish, you know our mother went to bed an hour ago and Penelope is not my girlfriend. I got some things to do, but right now, this letter is the most interesting thing."

"I'm sure Penelope will be devastated if she hears that," Sherlock replied swiftly before picking up the letter, but not opening it. "At least you don't try to hide your nosiness. I can tell you what's in this letter without opening it. There will be an excuse because he didn't send a postcard, like he promised, then some lines about his vacation, and probably some more thoughts on a… sleepover," the word alone sounded weird in Sherlock's mind, "he thinks of having with his dorm-mates and apparently me."

"Which you are not going to attend." Mycroft's face was unreadable, but Sherlock had equal skills.

"No need to state the obvious, now."

"I'm just worried, after everything that happened with Francis."

"I don't plan to run off and start a family with John Watson!" Sherlock said indignantly.

Mycroft only raised his eyebrows – it was obviously one of these days where Sherlock acted childish on purpose, just to annoy him. Well, two could play that game.

"But if you do, make sure to give me a call, I'd love to be godfather to your many obnoxious, adopted children."

Sherlock just huffed and turned back to his lecture, and this time, Mycroft got up, already in the door when he heard his brother call him back once more.

"Do you know if we have a relative from the Black side of the family, male, about 60 years old, who is a squib?"

"Is that why I found you reading about the family trees in the library the other day?" Mycroft inquired, eyes narrowed. "You know well that we don't have squibs in our family."

"We also don't have cousins who run off with Muggle-born girls."

Mycroft stepped back in and closed the door behind himself. This conversation was not one anyone in the family usually held and it was certainly not for everyone's ears.

"How do you know him?"

"I know he's dead now, and know he's been a Black. He knew things about me, so I wanted to know how close he is related to us."

You had to give Mycroft credit for not asking how Sherlock knew a dead squib, but he nevertheless looked like pondering if he should answer his brother or not. Finally, he sighed. "If someone like that existed, I'd advise you to look for an older brother of Uncle Filius."

Sherlock nodded. "Are there more cases like that?"

For a moment, Mycroft looked at his younger brother measuring. Then he shook his head. "No. Not alive, anyways. But if you don't watch out, the next name being erased will be yours."

"Not as long as our mother is around."

Mycroft gave a laugh. "Not everyone is exactly fond of her, either."

"Nothing is going to happen." Sherlock said that firmly, and his brother knew better than to argue with him. He turned back to the door and opened it, ready to retrieve to his own room. With one last look over his shoulder, he said: "Send John my regards." And with that, he left.

Sherlock looked after him for a moment before, closing the door and sitting back down on his bed, finally opening his letter. He couldn't help but feel a bit excited at the prospect of John's crawly handwriting.

"_Hey!  
_

_I'm so sorry I didn't get the chance to send you an actual postcard, but Harry (she's really nice at the moment, I think she handles me being a wizard a bit better now) came up with the idea of sending you a photo so you could see where we've been, so, I guess… here you go!" _

The Slytherin undid the paper clip from one corner of the parchment and picked up the photo that was attached. The first thing he noticed was that the picture didn't move, and although he'd heard that Muggle pictures didn't move, it was the first time he actually saw one. He spent a minute or so turning it upside down and tilting it in various angles, but it never did anything, so he finally actually looked at it. It showed John, in swimming trunks, grinning into the camera brightly, with a giant sand castle next to him. It had towers and even something that looked like a courtyard and the highest tower was probably as tall as John. There was a the sea in the background and the shadow of the person taking the picture falling towards John - from the shape of it, Sherlock suspected it was either John's mother or sister. He studied the picture a bit longer, before picking up the letter again.

_Harry and I spent about 8 hours building the sandcastle, and we were pretty proud of it – that was, until dad tripped and landed right on top of it…  
Anyways, we had a really great time, we went sight-seeing a bit, but actually spent most days at the beach. It probably sounds dull for you, but it was nice for a change. Although I do miss your crazy ideas. Not the deathly situations, but the adventures.  
I talked to Greg already, and he's coming over in two weeks to stay with us for a while, and so is Mike, although he can only stay for two days. Alec is on vacation, a family bonding thing – apparently his sister found out her boyfriend cheated on her and now she's really depressed (they've been together for a long time, apparently); no one can reach Zack, God knows what he's doing. If you want to, you could come over for a few days, too?_

_What have you been doing?_

_Hope to hear from you soon,  
John"_

X

Sherlock only sent his reply a few days later, when he finished his research about the squib. He would've been faster, but, like so often, some relatives had showed up and his mother was not having any of his bury-himself-under-books-in-his-room. Luckily, Athena had stayed around the house for a bit, so when he was done with his letter, he could easily send it back with her.

The letter read:

"_John, you subconsciously built Hogwarts at the beach, but I doubt your sister will ever find out. If she did, I'm sure her mood would drop again. Speaking of siblings, Mycroft sends regards. You're probably pleased to her that Athena doesn't trust him – she's obviously smart.  
Anyways, thank you for the picture – I've never seen a Muggle photograph this close before.  
I won't be able to visit you, by the way. I have obligations here that require my presence. In the time of your absence, I found out a few things about the squib. He told us his name, Black, and it turns out he's related to me. In fact, he was my second-degree uncle, but the family has erased him from the family trees. I know you're probably shocked now, but it is quite common in the old, pure-blooded families that irregularities, so to speak, are erased. Now we know how he knew so much about me. The only remaining question is the WHY. But I'll find out eventually._

_- S"_

The Slytherin sent Athena away and then rejoined his family downstairs, spending the evening listening to stories from the Ministry where more and more wizards voted for Muggle-equalization when it came to inhabiting certain areas and buildings and things like that.

Sherlock didn't care who lived where; in fact, he planned to live somewhere central in London as soon as he attained full age, possibly with lots of Muggles (best with problems and mysteries for him to solve!) around. But of course he kept those thoughts to himself.

Also, despite the warning glances Mycroft sent him whenever the conversations turned to the family and relatives, Sherlock was not as stupid as to approach the subject of his squib uncle – he knew that wouldn't end well.

And so the weeks passed with endless hours spent in the sitting room with his relatives, experiments that ended well or not so well – at least for his curtains and the table – and numerous letters from John, delivered in the middle of the night, telling Sherlock of the things normal 12-year-olds did, of going out to amusement parks (a concept John had to explain to Sherlock), of attending football matches with his parents, of fights with his sister (admittedly, Sherlock knew about fighting with siblings, too) and of a week-long sleepover with Greg and Mike, during which John told him every time that he was missed and that it would've been more fun with him.

X

When the shopping lists for the new school year arrived, John asked if they could maybe meet up in Diagon Alley, but Sherlock naturally negated, since both his parents would accompany him and Mycroft.

In the evening of the day they'd gone shopping, some of their cousins arrived, noble, snobbish youths, handsome, but with the worst characters and Mr. Holmes proposed a Quidditch match, since they had enough 'children' – how the older family members referred to everyone younger than them – to make to teams with three players each.

Sherlock and Mycroft agreed, of course, but both boys were reluctant. Mycroft simply hated any form of exertion and legwork, while Sherlock thought it pointless to fly around on brooms when he could spend his time better in so many other ways.

At least, their father seemed to be intent on making sure his sons would win this game and revealed two new broomsticks to them he apparently bought only just this afternoon. Even Sherlock had to marvel at the elegant look of the Firebolt 3 he held in his hands shortly after, when he walked out to the backyard and the surrounding estate in his own Quidditch gear. Of course the Holmes' had their own Quidditch gowns and equipment, like basically every wizard family in Britain, much like almost every Muggle family had footballs and football shirts. Admittedly, the equipment of the rich, old families was more high-class, but nevertheless, it served its purpose.

While changing, Sherlock had not been able to help himself and started grinning when Mycroft put on the additional pads a Keeper usually wore, since it made him look broader than he usually did. A death glare prevented Sherlock from saying anything out loud, but of course Mycroft knew that another joke on his weight just waited on the tip of his younger brother's tongue. In reality, the older Holmes was not even chubby anymore, since he had gone through one last tiny growth spurt and, for now, towered over his brother, maybe a bit broader built than other boys, but definitely not fat, but that didn't bother Sherlock the slightest, as Mycroft's ongoing diets were always a good topic to joke about.

Sherlock himself played as Chaser, together with one of their cousins, Michael, a pale 15-year-old Lestrange, who wasn't intelligent, but made up for it in cruelty – Sherlock remembered him ripping out whole tufts of hair from his younger sister whenever their parents didn't look, to sell them in Knockturn Alley.

The other team consisted of two other boys and one girl and their father and uncles decided on a game of half an hour, with the team with the highest score winning. Mycroft proved to be a tolerable keeper and in the end, Sherlock's team won with 80 to 50; the score could've been better if Sherlock had actually team-played with his cousin, but Mr. Holmes connived at that in favour of praising his sons and their talent.

"You should try out for the Slytherin team this year," his father told Sherlock once all the children were showered and presentable again. "Your brother made it on the team, too."

"Oh you stopped playing, Mycroft? What a shame…" one of their great-aunts cooed. She was very affectionate to the older Holmes brother and it was probably her fault that he had been such a chubby child, seeing as she'd always given him sweets and pastries when she came for a visit.

"My duties as Prefect unfortunately made it impossible for me to keep up with the team's training schedule," Mycroft told her with a smile and his father added: "And now that he's announced Head Boy, he will be even busier!" Mr. Holmes waited a moment for the rest of the family to react according to this news - the Holmes' had already known for a week, but of course showing off was required. You are what you own, even in the wizarding world, and the Holmes' happened to _own_ a son who was Head Boy.

"Well, it's only good for this school to announce our Mycroft here Head Boy. I heard there is the highest number of Mudbloods attending classes since the last 100 years – maybe the leadership of a pure-blooded wizard will at least guide them into the right direction," one of Sherlock's grandfathers threw in.

"Sherlock, you should make it on the Quidditch team, to follow your brother's footsteps."

At these words, Sherlock's face slipped slightly and Mycroft noticed, raising his eyebrows the tiniest bit, but, as so often, he stayed the only one who saw behind Sherlock's calm façade. He knew Sherlock had no ambitions to make it on the team, and neither did he plan on following his footsteps.**  
**

X

Cassiopeia Holmes eyed her younger son carefully as they stepped out of a fireplace near King's Cross station. Sherlock had been acting normal, but something seemed different about him. There was a form of excitement underlying every look he sent off; from the moment on they'd left the manor. He didn't even mess up on purpose when they used the floo powder, as if he was intent on getting to the train station as quickly as possible, even if it meant no adventures in stranger's houses.

If her son – or both of them, for that matter – were normal children, she would have understood excitement, maybe Sherlock even bouncing around, seeing as he was allowed back to school with his friends.

But Sherlock didn't have friends, he never had them, and for whatever reason he was delighted about, he certainly didn't bounce. No, he looked collected as always, but Cassiopeia could just tell. Maybe what Mycroft had told her was deeper than she thought.

John Watson, the boy they'd met on a train years ago, went to the same school, and, according to her older son, had become quite close to Sherlock. But Sherlock, her Sherlock, didn't befriend people, didn't trust them and certainly didn't get attached to them. And yet…

The two times he'd come home from Hogwarts for the holidays, he had been different, almost insufferable with his experiments and deductions, it was like his mind was even busier than usual, and that 'wore off' again after two or three days – until he left for Hogwarts and came back. Another thing that had surprised her was that they hadn't gotten a single note about him misbehaving – she was sure he got into trouble, she knew her son, and, well, Mycroft had always been more apt to tell her about his younger brother's whereabouts, but something, or rather someone seemed to keep Sherlock from getting into _too much_ trouble.

Now, Cassiopeia had known her son for 12 years, and with the right amount of reprimands, she had gotten him to behave at home – but deep inside, he was a different person from the boy he acted to be. Because that's what it was – a great big act. Clearly, her sons had inherited quite a lot from her and while she loved her husband (because yes, it had been a marriage out of love, despite some difficult circumstances), he was not nearly as intelligent as she was, didn't see what she saw – and none of them reached the level of their children.

As they casually strolled through the wall between the tracks 9 and 10, she took Sherlock to the side and told him: "Stay here for a moment. I need to talk to your brother first."

With a theatrically eye-roll that he couldn't seem to suppress, her younger son stepped aside and she turned to Mycroft.

"Now, dear, I hope you have a great last year. Prepare well for your N.E.W.T.s and make the family proud." She smoothed down his already impeccable jacket. "And keep an eye on your brother."

He gave her a forced smile. "You know he doesn't want that."

"But you'll do it anyways." She smiled.

He sighed. "Of course."

She leaned in and pecked him on the cheek and he hugged her back before picking up his trunk and turning away.

"And Mycroft?" He turned back, looking at her questioningly. "Keep an eye on this John Watson."

He made a face and replied swiftly: "I already do, believe me."

With one last nod, Cassiopeia saw her older son off and turned back to Sherlock. "So, Sherlock, I hope you have a good year, too, and good luck on your Quidditch try-outs. And stay out of trouble!"

Her younger son just sighed exaggerated and nodded, before picking up his trunk and hoisting it inside the train. She saw him disappear and scanned the windows for a while, until he saw the familiar curls again – she wasn't sure where he'd got them from, really, her hair was wavy at the best, and no one else in the family sported that curly head.

She was just about to turn away, when she noticed how her son's head shot up and turned sideward, before a grin split his face. Never in her life had Cassiopeia seen that look on Sherlock's face and it made her want to know more, want to know what – or better: who – had put that grin on his face. She made her way through the crowd toward the window, but right in that moment, the train whistled and the steam shot out from between the crawler track chains and the vehicle started moving.

When the window slid past her slowly, she got a quick glance on a small boy, Sherlock's age, with dark blond hair, who laughed and just sat down across Sherlock, and then started talking animatedly, voiceless to her, but gesturing wildly. Then, suddenly, he turned towards the window and waved out excitedly.

Cassiopeia looked around and found a short blond woman waving back enthusiastically into John's direction, and after looking at her for a moment, Sherlock's mother was sure that she was the same woman from the train all these years back. And with the train finally disappearing from the train station and leaving hundreds of parents behind, Cassiopeia Holmes decided it was time for a little chat with Mary Watson.


	6. Second Year - Part I

_Taller than before. Light suntan. Hair-colour a bit darker than before, but still with highlights from the sun. Smiling broadly._

That was how John looked like when he opened the door to Sherlock's compartment on the train and could finally see his friend again. He hadn't realized how much he'd actually missed having the Slytherin watch him out of narrowed eyes, deducing one thing or another, drawing the most remarkable conclusions. And what amazed him most was that Sherlock was actually grinning back.

He greeted his friend excitedly and started chatting away while storing his trunk and sitting down across Sherlock. When the train started to move, he remembered to wave at his mum and turned to the window, catching one last glance at her before she disappeared out of his view.

Soon enough, the rest of John's dorm found the two boys and the train ride was spent with the exchange of summer stories. Apparently Alec's sister's boyfriend had not only dumped her, but rumour had it that he dumped her for a _boy_. Sherlock was the only one not surprised at that and when John sent him a look, he only raised an eyebrow. The silent exchange between the two boys went like this:

_Don't tell me you knew that, Sherlock!_

_Alright, I won't tell you I knew it._

Sherlock!

_What?!_

"Something wrong with your faces?" Greg asked suddenly and John whipped his head around, trying to look innocent.

"No, I'm fine, we're fine!"

"Alright…" Greg still looked a bit concerned. "Seriously, you two looked like you were having gas pains or something."

"We're fine!" John said, with more emphasis and Greg dropped the topic, his hands lifted in surrender.

When they arrived at Hogsmeade in the evening, John briefly wondered if they had to take the boats again, but then everyone up from second year was called over to waiting carriages.

"How are they going to move?" Greg asked, eyeing them suspiciously. "There's nothing there to pull them."

John turned from where he was fiddling with his trunk to see the strange carriages for himself, but his eyes widened when he found himself in a staring contest with the strangest creature he'd seen so far.

It was a giant skeleton horse, with only a skull for a head, although it somehow resembled reptilian features and it had wings coming out its back, looking like a bat's. The empty eye sockets of the creature were directed at John and he found it hard to stare back – but staring at the mouth full of sharp teeth or the paper-thin, black skin that looked so eerie John understood why he at first thought it was a _skeleton_ horse didn't make it better, either, so he settled for the empty sockets.

"_What the bloody hell is that?!" _he asked, unable to look away from the creature harnessed to the carriage next to them.

"What is what?" Greg asked, following John's glance.

"That giant creepy horse right in front of us?!"

"What are you talking about, John? Are you feeling alright?" Greg looked concerned now and reached out to feel John's forehead. "You're not feverish…"

"Seriously, am I the only one seeing this?" John looked around, but he didn't see recognition in Mike's or Alec's eyes. It was only when Sherlock stepped next to him that he saw someone reacting to the horse.

"John, calm down, I can see it, too."

"Yeah, me too," Zack said, finally arriving at the group with his trunk dragging behind him.

"You can see what?!" Greg, Alec and Mike exchanged worried glances.

"The carriages are pulled by Thestrals. It's a rare species of winged horses that is invisible to people until they have witnessed the death of a person and fully accepted the concept of that." Sherlock explained casually, rattling the definition down like it was knowledge one would use every day.

"I can see them because I saw my grandmother die last summer – she went to feed her carnivorous plant and, well… ended up as food herself," Zack told them, looking not too touched by his own word.

"Your family does seem to have problems with all sorts of plants, huh?" Alec mentioned dryly. "I mean, your dad and the Whomping Willow, your grandmother and her plant…"

"There is a certain irony to it, yes," Zack admitted freely and then grinned.

"So, anyways, you're saying there is a giant winged horse in front of the carriage and it's invisible for us?" Greg asked, narrowing his eyes to the front of the carriage, as if he hoped that if he tried really hard, he would be able to see it.

"Yes," John nodded, "but believe me, it's not really that great of a sight."

"I think they're interesting," Sherlock mumbled and made a step closer, but retreated hastily when the Thestral snapped at him.

"Yeah, you also think that Bubotuber pus is interesting…" John grumbled before he climbed into the carriage, careful to avoid any more eye contact with the creepy horse. The others climbed in, too, and while Sherlock readily gave a detailed description of the Thestral to those who couldn't see it, John was in thoughts about why exactly he could see the creature in the first place – the squib that had died before their eyes a good two months ago.

He was more than excited for the new school year, the fact that he could try out for the Quidditch team and more adventures with Sherlock to come, but he sincerely hoped that no one was going to die this year.

X

The next morning, at their first breakfast at Hogwarts, John should feel really sorry about the fact his mother had picked up on so many magical things so easily. They had been to Diagon Alley twice that summer, and his mother had been fascinated by many things there, probably even more than John.

Fatal for both boys, John AND Sherlock, was that Sherlock's mum had recognized Mary Watson at platform 9 ¾ and decided to talk to the woman whose son had such an great impact on her younger boy. And while John had managed to keep his mum in the dark about his whereabouts with Sherlock, Mrs. Holmes had a good idea about what her son was doing in his free time (yes, Mycroft was not innocent in this) and while they didn't know about the chambers behind the trap door or the adventure in the Forbidden Forest, Mrs. Watson, after recognizing the other woman and asking her to have coffee together, was more than angry when she heard that her boy was sneaking around the school after bedtime.

And this was the reason for the first Howler of the year, addressed to John Watson, Gryffindor table.

He had no idea what the nicely folded letter was until Mike's eyes widened and Alec and Zack started to shuffle away from him a bit.

"Guys, what's your prob-"

John should never finish his question, because suddenly the letter in his hands unfolded itself and formed a mouth that hovered a bit above his head, and then, unexpectedly started to yell at him with the voice of his mother.

"JOHN HAMISH WATSON WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING SNEAKING AROUND THE SCHOOL PAST YOUR BEDTIME? THIS IS NOT HOW YOUR FATHER AND I HAVE RAISED YOU AND WE WERE EXPECTING THAT FROM YOUR SISTER BUT NOT FROM YOU - IF I HADN'T TALKED TO SHERLOCK'S MOTHER - such a lovely woman, by the way - I WOULDN'T EVEN KNOW ABOUT THIS! I EXPECT YOU TO BEHAVE ACCORDING TO THE RULES OF THE SCHOOL!"

The letter seemed to gasp for air for a moment, while John just stared at it wide-eyed, not even noticing that the whole Great Hall had turned silent to listen to the Howler – letters like that always were a nice entertainment (only if they weren't directed at yourself, obviously).

The letter had apparently caught itself again and then, as a finish, told John: "Anyways, have a great first day. Your father and I love you," before bursting into a darting flame and dissolving into ash.

For one or two heartbeats, silence lasted over the Hall, but then the first people started to laugh and soon everyone resumed to their breakfasts, although there were giggles audible during the whole mealtime. John was bright red in his face and it didn't help that his dorm-mates were barely breathing between laughing and only addressed him as 'John Hamish Watson' for the rest of the meal, and, to top it off, the rest of the week that should come.

When he dared to glance up from his breakfast in between bites to look at the Slytherin table, he felt a weird content in seeing that Sherlock, although sitting by himself like usually and seemingly ignoring everything around him had slightly coloured cheeks, too.

"Don't worry – they'll probably forget that Howler by the end of the term... or the school year, latest," Greg teased John when they got up from breakfast to go to their first lesson of the day, Defence Against the Dark Arts with the Slytherins. John only grumbled.

They met Sherlock in front of the Hall and John immediately waved him over.

"Did you know our mothers knew each other?!"

The Slytherin shook his head. "But I suspect they met at King's Cross. It's the only logical conclusion."

John was not satisfied. "And how does your mum know you and I wander off at nights? You didn't tell her, did you?!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked seriously offended. "Of course not. I assume that's Mycroft's fault. Luckily, he doesn't know everything – otherwise, I think the Howler would've been worse."

"Yeah, aren't we lucky?" John replied dryly. Then, he sighed. "You know, my mum never gets angry, really. The only time I've heard her actually yell was when Harriet rode her bike through her flowerbeds on purpose because they wouldn't let her go to the movies."

"She'll get over it," Sherlock said, not being really helpful and John decided to let the topic go. He'd write a letter to his parents later, to apologize, and that was going to be it. For now, he sat down next to his friend for the first lesson of the year to start.

X

"Why did you tell our mother about John and mine whereabouts?!"

Sherlock was rarely angry, but this evening, in a quiet corner of the Slytherin common room, Mycroft was witnessing one of that rare moments.

"Because she _asked_. And it's not like I told her everything. If I did, you surely wouldn't be here anymore." Mycroft stayed cool, at least on the outside, and watched his younger brother with narrowed eyes.

"I never saw it necessary to tell anyone about you repeatedly _snogging_ Penelope Edgecomb last year."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Are you really comparing me _snogging_ a girl, how you put it, to you sneaking off with John?"

"Well, you obviously needed her, and I need John – he is incredibly capable of handling stressful situations." Sherlock thought about something for a moment and then grinned. "Although, even if you needed a girl, you could've done better."

His older brother gave him a thin smile. "You're only 12, treasure that time, Sherlock. Because as superior as we might be, the devil called puberty-" he rolled his eyes at his own choice of words, "-is not something easily ignored."

Sherlock made a face. "I didn't want to talk about your hormones going wild. I'm asking you as a brother – don't talk to mummy about John anymore. There's already damage done in her having met his mother."

Mycroft gave him a measuring look and Sherlock looked straight back, a silent calculation of their positions. Finally, the older Holmes said: "I'm trying to do what's best for you."

_If Mycroft told their parents more about his and John's relationship, they might take him from Hogwarts – and with that, out of reach from John. But he functioned better with John, everything was clearer, and he could rely on the small boy more than on anyone else, Mycroft included. The thought of being without him was unacceptable; like he'd said before – he needed John._

And for one single moment, Sherlock gave in to his 12-year-old self, let go of his self-control, and said something he never said.

"Please."

Mycroft looked at him with something that only could've been described as alarm, but Sherlock's controlled mask was already back in place. However, they both knew the single word was something exceptional.

"I'll do what I can. But, Sherlock-" Mycroft's eyes drilled themselves into his brother's, "John Watson is doing things to you, and I'm not sure how much you can take before it gets too much. Caring is not an advantage."

And with those last words, Sherlock turned and went to his dorm, deeply in thoughts.

X

"Why did we think this is a good idea?!" John asked nervously, eyeing the other students that had showed up for the Quidditch trials at Friday evening of the first week. Besides himself and Greg, none of the other Gryffindor second-years had decided to try out and they were definitely the youngest at the Quidditch pitch.

On the other side of the pitch, the Slytherin team captain had called together his team and John saw that there were only three students who wanted to try out for the other team, one of them being Jim Moriarty. Despite the fact that Sherlock didn't hang out with his dorm much anymore and that Moriarty had turned out to be innocent in the incident last year – even being a victim since he'd been petrified – John still didn't like him very much.

"I'm not sure…" Greg looked equally nervous. His parents had bought him a nice broom in the summer, not the most high-class model, but still good quality and he held it anxiously. John, on the other hand, would be trying out on one of the school brooms.

"Hey – what's Sherlock doing here? He's not trying out, is he?" Greg suddenly asked and John looked up, only to find his friend coming down the hill to the Quidditch pitch, a broomstick in his hand. His other hand, however, was covered in a cast and held close to his chest with a loop.

When he finally stood in front of John, the blond looked worried. "Sherlock – what happened to you?!"

The Slytherin merely raised an eyebrow. "My family expects me to try out for the Quidditch team, but I'd rather spent my time with useful things."

"So you broke your bloody arm to not have to try out?"" John asked, completely irritated.

"Don't be ridiculous. Alec found me in the boy's bathroom on the second floor, trying to put on the cast – apparently, that's not something you can do by yourself very well…" Sherlock seemed to dislike the memory, but then caught himself, "Anyways, he helped me put it on and now I'm making sure enough people see me wearing it to strengthen my alibi."

John shook his head at him unbelievingly. "And all of that just to avoid having to try out for the team? You could've just tried out and messed up on purpose."

"They would've put me on the team, no matter how bad I pretended to be – no one wants to anger Mycroft." Sherlock scoffed.

"You're one happy family, huh?" Greg said, looking puzzled. "What's it with the broomstick then?"

"Ah yes-" Sherlock raised his hand with the broomstick and held it out for John, who looked confused. "I thought you might want this – I know you don't have one and I don't need mine anyways."

"I can't accept this." John made no move to take it from Sherlock, but now that the Slytherin turned it a bit in his hands, the two Gryffindors could read the label – it left them both speechless.

"Is that a bloody Firebolt 3?!" Greg almost passed out, from the looks of it, and raised a shivering hand to touch the wood. However, inches away, he stopped, obviously not daring to touch it.

"Sherlock, what the hell made you think I'd accept that from you – it's worth more than everything I possess! I can't!"

The Slytherin shrugged. "It doesn't matter how much it's worth. You should take it. In fact, I want you to take it."

John crossed his arms in front of his chest and shook his head. "No. I can't."

Sherlock made an impatient face and leaned in, bringing his lips so close to John's ear they almost touched it, and making it impossible for Greg to hear what he was whispering. "You saved my life. I might not show it, but I'm grateful. So take. This. Broomstick."

"You can't force me to take it! It's just too much!" John hissed back, admittedly kind of touched by Sherlock's word, but still not able to accept this gift. He'd seen that broomstick in the windows of Diagon Alley, had seen the price.

"It's social convention to accept a gift!" Sherlock argued back, and then added: "Would it change your mind if I told you to look at it as an early birthday present?"

"No it wouldn't! That thing is worth at least twenty birthday presents!"

"Fine, then I won't give you anything for your next twenty birthdays," the Slytherin replied swiftly and grinned, obviously content with his answer.

John only raised one eyebrow. "You wouldn't have gotten me anything either way – you don't care about birthdays."

"Well, maybe I changed my mind and thought of getting you something and now I have to refrain from that?" Sherlock grinned cockily.

With one last uncomfortable shift, John grumbled: "Sod this," and closed his hands around the wood of the broomstick. "Thank you! Really, I don't feel good about it, but thank you!"

Sherlock looked smug and then turned to walk back to the castle, only to be stopped in his tracks by John and Greg.

"You're going to watch our try-outs, right?"

The look on the Slytherin's face was the same other's would wear when they were in mortal danger or great pain, but when he saw John's hopeful – and slightly pale due to nervousness – face, he rolled his eyes. "Fine. Though I don't really see the point in this."

"Just try to look supportive," Greg told him and then shared a look with John. "Come on, let's get this over and done with. Before I puke."

X

The two boys made their way over to where the Gryffindor team captain, a fifth-year called Timothy Capper, just eyed the new applicants.

They had to sign their name to a roll of parchment before he told them to get on their broomsticks to try out some basics of flying.

When John climbed the Firebolt, and despite his awareness of Sherlock and the rest of his dorm in the stands, he suddenly felt himself calm down. He felt a weird certainty, like he knew it was going to turn out well, and when Capper blew the whistle, he pushed himself off the ground, only to shoot up straight in the air.

The Firebolt was amazing – Capper had told them to fly two rounds around the pitch for the beginning and within seconds, John was ahead of his group, his broomstick accelerating at a great speed and his surroundings turned into swift colours as he sped between the towers, zig-zagging around them.

He stopped his broom in the air in front of Capper, completely breathless from the experience, and way ahead of the rest of his group, while the Quidditch captain looked at his broom with a mix between admiration and envy.

"What was your name – Watson? You've got a Firebolt 3?"

John could only nod, to busy with grinning and marveling at the broom and one glance down to the stands showed him that his friends, along with Sherlock, stared up. John believed he could see the slightest of smiles tugging at the corners of Sherlock's mouth, but it was hard to tell from all the way up in the air.

After the rest of the group had arrived, too – Greg grinning at John – Capper made them go through various exercises, such as flying in a formation, passing each other Quaffles or ducking down whenever he threw balls at them that resembles the two Bludgers.

Soon enough, he had sorted out about 15 students and only Greg, John and two others were remaining. Now they had to hover in front of the three goal posts and try to block Quaffles, a task John managed easily. He was good at catching things and the few times, he reacted to slow, the speed of the Firebolt made up for it and he caught the Quaffles anyway.

When they went to practicing with the Bludgers, Greg had the most fun, sending them away with the bat easily, and after John had gotten over the slight fear of being hit straight in the face by the menacing balls, his impeccable aim at firing spells proved to be good with the Bludgers, too.

They threw some more Quaffles at each other after that and finally, after they'd been on the field for almost three hours, Capper told them to land. John's legs felt wobbly once he stood on the ground again, and Greg shared this feeling, but it was replaced by nervousness when Capper called them over to the rest of the team to announce his decision.

"So, guys, you're all very good, but we only need a Keeper and a Beater. McRiley-" he looked at the black-haired third-year, a broad, muscled boy who had managed to hold the most Quaffles next to John, "would be my second choice for Keeper, but my first choice would be Watson. However-" his eyes now drilled themselves into John's, "you would also be good as a Beater. What would you rather play?"

John was astonished at this announcement, and thought about it for a moment. Playing as Beater definitely had the advantage of getting to fly around freely instead of just sticking to the goal posts, but he wasn't sure if he could keep up the strength to keep hitting the Bludgers for hours in a game. Also, the Keeper position just felt _right_ to him.

Having come to a decision – even if he felt bad for McRiley – he announced: "I'd rather play Keeper."

Capper nodded. "Alright."

John turned to McRiley, who looked disappointed, but didn't seem to hold a grudge against John. "Congratulations on making it on the team – I know you were better than I was."

John smiled at him friendly and returned his attention to Capper, who just announced the new Beater as Gregory Lestrade, to the utter surprise of John's friend.

"Congratulations, you two!" Capper announced and the rest of the team cheered, too. "Training is three times a week, you'll get schedules for that. We're starting next week. See you around!"

And with that, they were dismissed and, chatting animatedly, jogging towards the stands, where their friends were waiting for them.

"WE MADE IT ON THE TEAM!" John yelled and Greg laughed loudly, winding his arm around John's neck and pulling him close. "WE'RE ON THE BLOODY QUIDDITCH TEAM!"

Zack and Mike freaked out, too, and the four Gryffindors hopped around excitedly for a moment, the only one holding his composure being Sherlock, who smirked at John and congratulated both boys, but otherwise refrained from the behaviour the others were displaying.

They made their way back to the castle, John and Greg sweaty, but grinning from ear to ear, and before they parted in the Great Hall, John took Sherlock to the side.

"Hey, thanks again for the Firebolt – I really… You shouldn't have given it to me- no, listen – you shouldn't have given it for me because I saved you. That goes without saying, it's what friends do – I'd do it again if I had to. But nevertheless, thanks. You're a great friend." He smiled sheepishly at Sherlock's kind of uncomfortable expression – he knew the Slytherin didn't do well with emotions and stuff, but it just needed saying.

"Anyways, see you tomorrow, yeah?" John finished and Sherlock nodded affirmatively.

This night, both boys slept like stones, John in the knowledge that he'd made it on the team, and Sherlock in the knowledge that he'd made the right decision when he'd decided to trust John Watson.

X

John had never felt that sick in his life. He was shaking, his knees were wobbly and his hands were cold as ice. It was one day before his birthday, the 7th November and the day of his first Quidditch match, Gryffindor against Slytherin, and John wished he was never born in the first place. The fact that Greg felt the same way didn't make it any better.

If he followed logic, he knew there was no reason for his agitation – they had trained for over a month and both boys had become quite good; also, the weather was perfect for a match today, with only a bit of cold wind, but no rain and enough clouds so the sun wouldn't blind anyone.

During the time in the changing room, neither of the two second-years got out a word and a slight buzz had started in John's mind that kept overlaying everything Capper told them in the meeting before the match. He saw Greg nervously fiddle with his bat and leaned over, whispering: "Shouldn't you listen to what Capper says?"

Greg shrugged, pale. "He's talking about the snitch – not my divison." Then he added with a pointed look: "You're not listening, either."

John shrugged. "I can't. I'm too excited _slash_ scared."

The slightly younger Gryffindor nodded. "You know, if you mess up, I can always knock you out with my bat or a Bludger, but who's gonna knock _me_ out afterwards?"

"Maybe we can crash into each other," John suggested and sighed. "The weird thing is – when I sneak off with Sherlock, I'm never that nervous or scared. But right now, I feel like hiding somewhere and not coming out. Don't get me wrong, I love the game, but-"

"But going out there in front of the whole school and probably messing up makes you shit your pants? Yeah mate, I get it."

"Lestrade, Watson – am I boring you?" Capper's voice startled them and they quickly shook their heads, making embarrassed faces.

"Good. Now, get your broomsticks and be ready to go out."

Everyone got up quickly and grabbed their broomsticks, and so did John, only he stopped in his tracks when he saw Sherlock standing just outside the changing rooms, hands in the pocket of his coat and wearing his usual neutral expression.

"Sherlock?"

The Slytherin's eyes moved to the open door where John was poking his head through.

"Ah, John. I only came to tell you that I will be rooting for Slytherin today."

There were just so many things wrong in this statement and John was so nervous, so instead of asking the approximately twenty questions popping into his head (going from 'Sherlock will be _rooting for someone_?' over 'For Slytherin?!' to 'Why is he telling me that?'), he simply made: "Aha."

Sherlock studied him for a moment, then he explained: "Mycroft thinks some people could understand it wrong if I was seen with the Gryffindors or even clapping when they scored. He even makes me wear this-" He pulled out a scarf in the Slytherin colours from one pocket and held it up in disgust.

At that, John had to chuckle; also, Sherlock had answered most of his important questions. It amazed John to no end how Sherlock had just known everything going on in his head, but then again – he was Sherlock Holmes, that really was to be expected.

"Poor you. I'll play with the knowledge that you're secretly cheering for me, though," John teased, feeling a bit better than minutes ago, his nerves having calmed down a bit.

The Slytherin made a face. "I'm not cheering for anyone."

"Shh, just let me live in my illusion for a bit longer," John replied. When he heard Capper calling, his eyes widened and he said: "I gotta go – see you after the game. Wish me luck!"

"You don't need it," Sherlock stated simply, and although it might have sounded harsh to anyone else, it meant a lot to John – Sherlock was right almost always and the fact that the younger boy believed in him like that was a soothing thought.

He hurried back inside and stood in line before Greg, who was looking around for him impatiently already.

"Sherlock says break a leg," John hissed over his shoulder.

"What? Really?!" Greg sounded impressed.

"Not in those words, no, but that was the subtext," John admitted and then their conversation was ended because Capper as Captain pushed open the doors to the pit and the Gryffindor Quidditch team walked out for the first match of the year, accompanied by an incredible noise coming from the ranks. Almost everyone – besides the Slytherins – seemed to cheer for Gryffindor. It was almost sad, actually. Although there had been hard work to make the Houses equal over the past years, the old rivalry and prejudices about the Slytherins were just branded too deep into everyone's minds to simply forget. Plus, most Slytherins treated the others like crap, so that was a major factor, too.

In John's mind, however, it wasn't good that everyone was cheering for them – only more people that would be disappointed if he'd mess up.

Now the Slytherin team was coming to the pit and the Captains greeted each other before they had to take their positions and Madame Hooch blew her whistle, marking the beginning of the game. John shot in the air instantly.

X

John hovered in front of the goal posts and hoped his fluttering nerves were not too obvious. The Gryffindors currently had the Quaffle and already rushed towards the Slytherin Keeper, so John's posts weren't in immediate danger at the moment, but he nevertheless tightened the grip around the Firebolt until his knuckles turned white.

Suddenly, Capper, only meters away from successfully throwing the Quaffle, had to move out of the way of a Bludger and dropped the Quaffle - something the Slytherin Chasers had only waited for. And now John found himself confronted with a formation of three green enemies coming towards him rapidly.

Below him, the chants of the Gryffindor fans grew louder and louder as the Slytherins came closer and then one of the Chasers reached back and threw the Quaffle. The moment the ball left the Slytherin's hand time slowed down for John and with an ease that surprised himself he flew over to the left goal post, where the Quaffle was directed at and still had enough time to get in position and easily block the throw, catapulting it away with the end of his broomstick and into the waiting arms of one of Gryffindors own Chasers. Only then time seemed to accelerate again and John could hear the roar of the crowd while his face split into a bright grin.

After that, the tension was broken and the match soon picked up pace, John being incredibly busy with defending his goal posts – he managed most of the times and only missed two throws that had been particularly fast and unexpected. Greg managed to knock off one of the Slytherin Chasers with a Bludger and the guy fell through the air for a moment before one of the other Chasers caught him and brought him back to his own broomstick, while Greg was being cheered at and grinned at John.

At some point, the Gryffindor Seeker started to rush up in the sky, quickly followed by the Slytherin seeker and everyone stopped in their tracks to watch what was going on. The Seekers were in a tight struggle, trying to get past the other and just when everyone was dying of suspense, the red-clad Seeker reached out and the commentator went crazy.

"GRYFFINDOR HAS CAUGHT THE SNITCH – THE GAME ENDS WITH A SCORE OF 200 TO 20 FOR GRYFFINDOR!"

And while the crowd went wild, no one, unfortunately not even John, heard Greg's call of "WATCH OUT JOHN!" and saw him racing after a blurry dot, until it was too late.

The Bludger, sent by an angry Slytherin Beater, hit John's right side, sending a sting of hot pain up his arm while he felt his bones break and the force of the impact shook John on his Firebolt. He desperately clung to it with his good hand while the Bludger ricocheted back from John's body and came back, drawing a curve and, despite John ducking on his broom, grazed the helmeted head of the Keeper and sending him off his broomstick, black dots dancing in front of his eyes.

John's last coherent thought, oddly enough, was that everyone warned him of Sherlock, but no one had warned him one single time that Quidditch could be quite lethal, too. Then, he plummeted into the ground.

X

He vaguely felt how he was lifted on a stretcher and lifted up to be carried to the Hospital wing, while the commentator still announced the spectacular win of Gryffindor and the crowd celebrated. When he blinked an eye open painful, he noticed that Capper and Greg were carrying the stretcher and Madame Pomfrey walked next to him, while Sherlock, of all people, hurried along on the other side.

"I advise you to close your eyes to avoid sickness," the Slytherin told him as if he'd expected John to open his eyes right now. "I tried to stop your freefall, but the Hovering Charm was not strong enough."

"...What?"

Admittedly, that was not the most elaborate of all conversational replies John had in store, but the awful pain in his right arm and the fact that he now indeed felt sick, didn't make it easy to concentrate. He remembered being hit by a Bludger and then freefall and pain.

"The Bludger hit you off your broomstick, mate," Greg explained helpfully, pale in the face. "Sherlock did the Aresto-Momentum-spell, but it only slowed you down, not stop you. You fell all the way from the goal posts and landed on your side."

"The Bludger did a good job of crushing the bones in your arm, but you landing on it only made it worse," Capper called back over his shoulder and John decided it was a good moment to pass out again, especially since hearing about his bones being crushed didn't do much good to his stomach. The last thing he heard was an exasperated "Oh, John, not again!" of Sherlock before everything went black again.

Sometimes later, he woke up and found Madame Pomfrey pointing her wand at him. "You need to drink this, then you can go back to sleep again," she explained calmly and shoved a cup into his good hand. The liquid in the cup was dark and smoked a bit and when John tasted it for the first time, he gagged and nearly threw up, but the nurse kept the cup pressed against his lips and he swallowed grimly, trying to ignore the unpleasant taste and the way it burned while making its way down his throat. Almost immediately, his arm started to throb and burn even more, but he was too exhausted to do much about it and thankfully sank back into a dreamless slumber.

X

John woke up in the middle of the night, the burn of the Skele-Gro still lingering in his arm, and at first he couldn't put his hands on what had woke him up, but then he realized that it was the hushed conversation of a group of people a bit down the wing.

He concentrated hard to hear what they were saying and could distinguish the voices of Professor McGonagall, Madame Pomfrey, Professor Flitwick and Professor Slughorn.

"... it's a simple petrification, from a spell, but altered so we won't be able to remove the effect until the wizard or watch casting it has decided for it to wear off." That was Madame Pomfrey.

"This is ridiculous – who is able to alter a spell like that?" Professor Flitwick asked, sounding agitated.

"Obviously someone very talented. The same person who annihilated the spell over the writing, I suppose," Professor McGonagall replied. "The girl is one of your Ravenclaws, Filius?"

"Yes, yes – poor Miss Hooper, I fear." The tiny wizard answered, voice grief-stricken.

"Well, we won't be able to do much until she gets better again, so I suggest we just leave her here with you, Poppy," McGonagall decided. "The student who found her was a Slytherin, right, Horace?"

Slughorn cleared his throat. "Yes - young Sherlock Holmes. An excellent student."

John's eyes widened in the darkness. A Ravenclaw student had obviously been petrified and Sherlock had found her?

"Did he say anything about who might have done that?"

"No, the poor boy was almost hysterical-"

John raised his eyebrows at that – Sherlock, hysterical?

"- and he ensured me that he didn't see anything, no, he even tried to help the poor girl before he saw me coming around the corner. He was kneeling beside her, trying to get her pulse, examining her for her wellbeing. Fine student, this young Holmes..." Slughorn's voice drifted off a bit and John actually had to hold back a chuckle, situation serious or not.

He was pretty sure that Sherlock had only faked being hysterical and kneeling beside the girl to help her? More like trying to get as much information off her before he was being disturbed.

"What about the Chamber, though, Minerva?" Madame Pomfrey sounded worried. "Will everything repeat itself?"

McGonagall sighed. "Mr. Potter has reassured me that the monster of the chamber is dead, and Lord Voldemort is, too. Whoever petrified that poor girl and let the writing reappear is probably just playing a perverted joke. Nevertheless, I'll instruct Pomona to prepare some Mandrakes, just in case."

John was incredibly confused at what he'd witnessed, but he didn't get further explanation, because apparently the professors left and soon, the wing was quiet again. That was why he startled even more when he turned to his side carefully and suddenly found himself on eyelevel with two pale grey orbs.

_"Bloody hell, Sherlock!" _John hissed, trying to calm down his hear. "_You nearly gave me a heart attack."_

"You're in the Hospital Wing – any such happening would be treated best here," came the snarky reply and John rolled his eyes.

"What are you doing here? What's going on with the girl? I overheard the professors talking."

"I was on my way back from the Hospital Wing – you were passed out, so there was no point in staying for longer – when I noticed writing on the wall next to a bathroom on the first floor. I wanted to take a closer look and saw that Ravenclaw girl standing in the hallway, obviously petrified. She had obviously discovered the writing and was reading it in the moment of her petrification. I cast different anti-spells, but nothing worked and so I just tried to get as many information about her state as possible before Professor Slughorn walked past and noticed me."

"So you feigned to be hysterical to get away." John was grinning and proud of himself – after all, that was what he'd thought about the whole situation when overhearing the staff talk.

"Slughorn mentioned it?"

"Oh yes," John grinned a bit wider. "He mentioned the 'poor boy' young Holmes, the 'fine student' trying to help the girl – Hooper. That name rings a bell, but I can't put a finger on it..."

"Don't worry – most people don't use their brain enough to remember important things – don't take it personal." Sherlock looked indifferent, but John still felt slightly offended.

"What does the writing say, by the way? The teachers talked about some sort of chamber..."

"Oh, it reads: _"The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the heir, beware."_. The writing has appeared before, though."

John was intrigued by now. Chamber of Secrets? Sounded exciting – and like an adventure. "It has?"

"Yes, back when Harry Potter went to Hogwarts. And before that, too. Potter set an end to the happenings, though."

John in his bed made a face, trying to remember what the teachers had said. "Professor McGonagall said that Harry Potter has killed the monster. Also, that the writing has reappeared, meaning someone undid a spell that hid it before."

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. "Makes sense – the letters are not fresh, I already figured it was old. Obviously they tried to get rid of it, but didn't manage, so they just cast a spell to cover it. And someone knows a counterspell." The Slytherin fell silent again and John tried to process everything said, too, until something else occurred to him.

"Why did you come back here?"

"I hoped they would be able to de-petrify her, so I could ask some questions, but obviously that was in vain." He looked annoyed at that.

John sighed. "You know, you could've just said you were worried about me or something. Or came to tell me what happened."

Now Sherlock looked confused. "I knew you were in good care. Madam Pomfrey is very capable. Also, you're usually opposed when I try to tell you about theories or things in general in the middle of the night."

John had nothing to respond to that. Sherlock's logic was, as usual, brilliant.

X

Sherlock, despite spending so much time in the Hospital Wing, still couldn't help but feel uncomfortable here, but since John was refined to stay there for at least another two days, he knew the social convention was to visit him. Plus, he worked better with John around and when he was able to think aloud, something that didn't work in his dorm – Auriga usually wasn't in the mood to listen to endless monologues and soliloquies were not his style. True, sometimes he didn't notice when someone went away during his elaborate explanations, but apart from that, he did better with an audience.

The fact that it was John's birthday was a bit annoying, though, since apparently every single person that had ever come in contact with John apparently decided to visit him, going from Lestrade (the least annoying) over the rest of John's dorm to apparently every single other second-year Gryffindor, the Quidditch team, fans and even some Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws Sherlock didn't even knew John was familiar with but apparently even knew the names of. Then again, Sherlock usually didn't keep track on who John talked to, so that had not much to say.

The whole birthday-affair reached its peak, though, when even Mycroft showed up at John's bed.

"What is he doing here?" Sherlock demanded to know, glaring at his brother, while John shifted uncomfortably.

Mycroft sent Sherlock a pointed look and then gave John a polite smile. "Congratulations on your win yesterday. You did some interesting things there. Oh, and I believe it's your birthday today. Congratulations on that, too."

"Uhm, thank you," John replied, careful. "It's a good thing Sherlock slowed my down when I fell – it could've ended much worse."

"Yes, my brother – always so insightful, isn't he?"

"Bugger off," Sherlock replied nonchalantly. He'd been trying to find a clue to who petrified the Ravenclaw or rediscovered the writing on the wall all day, but people had been coming in all day, making it impossible to think clear. Mycroft was only topping it of now. "Don't you have somewhere else to be; other people to harass?"

"The same thing goes for you, little brother. Don't you think John needs to rest?"

He waved him off. "Nah, John's fine."

"Actually, Sherlock-" John started, but was cut off.

"The other Gryffindors from John's dorm are coming any minute and you surely don't want to scare them off, do you?" Sherlock asked, looking towards the door pointedly. The distant chatter of Zack, Mike, Greg and Alec was audible from afar.

I'll get going soon – just one last word of advice for John." Mycroft looked at him with cold eyes and Sherlock noticed John sitting up a bit straighter. He huffed. There was no need for John to be intimidated or going into defence mode with Mycroft. "Refrain from investigating the happenings concerning poor Miss Hoopers petrification. You wouldn't want to get into trouble with Sherlock again, not after last year and that _nasty_ Howler you received at the beginning of this school year."

Sherlock was still thinking about a comeback, and so was John, apparently, but then the doors of the Hospital wing flew open and John's dorm poured in, while Mycroft turned on his heels and sauntered outside, not deigning a look at them, but surely aware of the wide eyes they made at seeing him.

The rest of the afternoon was obviously pleasant for John and Sherlock, although dreading all the company all over again, found himself unwilling to leave. There were no experiments to be made and his brain was working in the background, channelled by John's presence, while he sat next to the older boys bed mostly silence, watching John interact with his friends and stealing some of the Gryffindors chocolate frogs he got as a birthday present whenever he though John wasn't looking.

However, John, despite pretending not to notice, did notice indeed that his amount of sweets was decreasing significantly and that Sherlock was the reason for that, but he didn't call him out on that – when his friend had left him in the middle of the night, after the discovery of the petrified Ravenclaw, it had dawned on John that the Slytherin obviously had sat with his unconscious self until well into the night, before leaving, discovering the Ravenclaw and the writing and then coming back. So no matter how much Sherlock proclaimed that there was no point in sitting next to John, he'd done it nevertheless.

He rolled his eyes when he thought about the friends he'd made at Hogwarts – quiet Alec, who behaved a bit off today, cheerful Mike, crazy Zack, Greg with whom he had a lot in common and who'd grown to be one of his best mates (and who was currently excusing himself for the billionth time for not seeing the Bludger and blocking it before it had hit John) and of course bloody brilliant Sherlock Holmes with his mind that shone brighter than a million suns. John would never have it any other way, though.

X

Of course the news of the opening of the Chamber had spread like wildfire because Filch was neither able to remove the writing from the wall (something he hadn't managed all those years ago either) and neither of the teachers was able to let it disappear again - the caster of the spell that had brought it back had apparently made that impossible.

When John walked past the writing for the first time, a shiver ran down his spine at the words written on the wall in a sloppy handwriting and a deep red colour that reminded him very much of blood.

"_The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the heir, beware._"

The young Ravenclaws' petrification wore off after a bit more than 24 hours, but she couldn't remember a thing and while John was intrigued by the mystery, Sherlock grew increasingly frustrated with the fact that no one had seen a thing, the girl couldn't remember anything and none of the teachers seemed to be willing to give him any information.

On public demand, however, Professor McGonagall gave the students a small speech about three or four days after the incident, telling them that there was no reason to be worried and that it was to be treated as a prank, seeing as the terror of the Chamber of Secrets had ended with the interference of Harry Potter back in the days when he went to Hogwarts.

Although the Chamber was no longer a taboo issue per se, no one held much information on it either, and Professor Binns, after being bugged about it by Sherlock for the greater part of one lesson, told his class only that the Chamber did exist, somewhere hidden in the school, and had been home to a monster that had been controlled by Lord Voldemort and been slain by Harry Potter. No one knew where the entrance to the Chamber lay, and that was it.

Sherlock had told this to John and his friends, seeing as they didn't share the History of Magic classes, but it had done nothing to sooth his thirst for knowledge.

However, after weeks of nothing happening anymore, though, and December starting, there was only a minimum of gossip about the Chamber going around – most people suspected a Slytherin student being responsible for it, seeing as the writing talked about an heir of Slytherin, and once more, John's friendship with Sherlock was frowned upon. Not that the Gryffindor cared about that, but what he minded was the name-calling that had started again – not to him, mind you, he was a Quidditch star now after all, but people warned him again about Sherlock and called Sherlock himself horrible things, 'freak' being the nicest word.

It even grew worse when, on the same morning Professor McGonagall went around to ask if anyone would stay at Hogwarts for Christmas, the roosters on the school grounds were found with slit throats, massacred over night.

There was no evidence to who did it or why they had to die, but it didn't take long until the first students remembered that Sherlock liked to do experiments, amongst other things with dead animals, too, and John watched horrified how Sherlock was actually being asked out of class by Professor McGonagall, who had a serious talk with him, asking about the roosters. John of course tried to follow, but he ended up in the corridor on the third floor, with the gargoyle watching the staircase not letting him in.

Sherlock, however, emerged from the office twenty minutes later, grumbling something about professors jumping to conclusions without evidence, people 'seeing, but not observing' and 'perfectly safe experiments' – obviously ignoring the fact that he had successfully set aflame the dungeons more than once and dropped liquids that burnt their way through various things, including clothes and marble – with John grinning next to him, being relieved that Sherlock was not under suspicion any longer.

When the Christmas break finally arrived, everyone seemed eager to get out of the castle. Even those students who usually stayed behind for the holidays went home if they could, because despite the staff repeatedly announcing that there was no danger to them, the whole Chamber-of-Secrets-happening had disturbed the peace over the castle.

The train ride to London was pleasant in general, but both Sherlock and John grew more and more anxious the closer they got to their destination. Sherlock, because he dreaded the talk he would surely have with his mother and John because he dreaded the exact same thing – facing his parents after the Howler-disaster. They'd sent letters, true, and had sounded normal and friendly, but he simply knew that the topic would be brought up again.

"I want you to know, that if I die, you can have the Firebolt," John stated gloomily when the train had mere 10 minutes until arrival. Greg made a compassionate face.

"Mate, you're not gonna die. Your parents love you. I met them, remember? The worst that's going to happen is that they make you play the clarinet on Christmas for your relatives or something."

That elected a snort from Zack. "You play the clarinet?"

"Yes?" John answered defensively. "What's wrong with that?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing…" Zack replied quickly, but by now he was holding on for dear life to Mike and even Alec grinned.

"I didn't know you played an instrument," Sherlock suddenly stated, sounding almost offended. Like it was a crime of John not telling him something about his life.

"You did not deduce that?" John asked, grinning good-naturedly.

"You didn't deduce that I played the violin, either," the Slytherin defended himself, and he was definitely not pouting. Not much, at least.

"Well, I'm not bloody Sherlock Holmes, I don't have to do that," John simply replied, but then he remembered what had been the starter for this conversation and made a face again. "Aren't you at least a bit scared of what your mum is going to say?"

"Oh, he already has a pretty clear idea of that," came the cool reply from the door and everyone's head turned towards it, facing Mycroft. Everyone besides Sherlock and John stiffened and then fell silent, although Mycroft didn't even bother to look at them.

"Isn't it enough that we have to spend two weeks under the same roof soon?" Sherlock sounded annoyed, as always with his brother. "Did you really need to bother me in my last minutes free of you?"

"I merely stopped to wish John Merry Christmas and to tell you the good news that Uncle Robert and father will be accompanying mother to the train station today." Mycroft gave his brother a thin smile and from the way Sherlock's eyes widened for a short moment before he regained control over his face once more, John had the strong feeling that some sort of meaning lay in those words.

"Oh joy," Sherlock stated merely, though, and with one last meaningful look, Mycroft slid the compartment door close again and left.

There was an audible swoosh of breath coming from Zack, Mike, Greg and Alec and then Greg stated: "No offense, but he is kinda creepy, isn't he?"

Sherlock huffed. "I have to live with him."

"You poor bastard," Greg concluded and John just grinned.

Then, the train arrived at King's Cross and while everyone hurried out to greet their parents, Sherlock lingered behind a bit and John slowed down gathering his things, too, knowing that something was bothering his friend. It was only when the rest of his dorm had left the compartment, saying their goodbyes for the holidays, that Sherlock felt comfortable to speak.

"I think it might be wise if we didn't correspond during the holidays."

John sighed exasperatedly. "Let me guess – it's got something to do with only sending you letters after 11 pm and your family?"

"You surprise me sometimes," Sherlock replied, looking baffled.

The Gryffindor made an annoyed face. "Somehow, that sounds more like an insult than a compliment. But alright. No letters."

Sherlock nodded thoughtful. "I appreciate your understanding."

"It's ok. But seriously – one day you have to explain all of this to me."

To that, Sherlock replied nothing, but gently shoved John out of the train before following and searching the crowd for his family. When his eyes met the black eyes of his father, he subconsciously stood straighter and shoved past John roughly, but on purpose, whispering a quick "Merry Christmas, see you next year!" into the baffled Gryffindors ear before plastering the indifferent look on his face and walking towards the waiting adults.

John, by now used to Sherlock's antics, didn't wonder too much anymore and just scurried through the crowd into the waiting arms of his mother, having forgotten about his panic completely.

Mycroft was already waiting with the other adults (technically counting as one since he'd turned 17 one week before John's birthday) and after greeting them stiffly, they made their way towards the exit, Robert mumbling something about good memories but 'not so many Mudbloods and Muggles in his days'.

The days after the return at Holmes' Manor were dreadful for Sherlock and in the beginning, his mother noticed the John-Watson-effect, how she called it, on her younger son again – he barely seemed able to sit still or keep his mouth shut from deductions about the family (she had to use a Silencing Charm on him when she noticed that he was close to blurting something out, no doubt about Uncle Robert's son who – according to Sherlock – had something going on with a Veela. And mixing with half-bloods was not something accepted in the Holmes-Black-Lestrange-Family tree.

It didn't help that Sherlock was banned from experimenting during the visit of the family and Cassiopeia found him sulking on his bed on the evening of the 25th, already bored mindless. Mycroft was better when it came around these things, he held a natural charm and could be smiling all evening if required; Cassiopeia knew her older son wanted to work in the Ministry and she had no doubt he would make it far there very quickly. Sherlock, on the other hand, despite acting so grown up, was more childish, sulking easily and in constant need of entertainment or his brain 'rotted', how he put it.

"Sherlock, love, stop sulking."

"I'm not sulking," her younger son replied and, as if to contradict her words, pulled his dressing gown around himself more tightly.

She moved over gracefully and sat down on his bed, looking very out of place in her long dress made of black lace and the porcelain skin. The action was rare and Sherlock was intrigued and turned around his head to look at his mother. He narrowed his eyes.

"You're worried."

_Grim lines around her mouth and eyes, pupils dilated a bit. The unusual move of sitting down next to him._

"Constantly."

Sherlock's mind filed away the fact that Mycroft had obviously borrowed that line from their mother, then, but he made no move or any other sign to take part in the conversation.

His mother narrowed her eyes and then closed the door with a flick of her wand before casting a spell, no doubt to sound-proof the room.

"I know you hate all of this with a passion other people reserve for love, I know you dread every moment here, and I know the others are too stupid to see that, as long as you keep up the act."

Now, Sherlock sat up, eyeing his mother closely, but keeping his face neutral. He wasn't sure where this was leading to.

"You surely know I talked to John Watson's mother, and she was more than willing to tell me about her son and your relationship to him."

"I don't have friends," Sherlock replied calmly, testing out the waters.

"I know. But my point is – if I can talk to John's mother, others can too. And the word of you in the company of the Mudblood Gryffindor is already spreading amongst some people. I'd hate to lose you."

His mother's voice was neutral, and in his mind, Sherlock added the words _'but if you get erased from the family tree, there is nothing I would or could do for you'. _He also understood that there was no point in denying his acquaintance with John.

"We don't contact each other over the holidays. But I won't stop talking to him, he is good for thinking."

"I already figured you would say that." It was said without any form of emotion or judgment. "And I know you feel betrayed because I made Mycroft talk to me."

Sherlock's cheeks tinted a light red and his eyebrows twitched once, a clear sign of his anger that he didn't try to hide. "The bastard shouldn't have told you."

"Tsk tsk, Sherlock, don't talk like that about your brother. And do you really think he planned on doing so? Love, I'm your mother, and if I want to know something, I will know." Her eyes twinkled amused at the attempts of Sherlock to regain control over his face and emotions.

"Now, listen to me very closely, because I will not repeat myself."

She saw how her son started to roll his eyes, but one glare of her stopped him in his tracks.

"Your father and I will be gone with the family for three weeks in summer, during which you will be here alone, with Mycroft."

_Mycroft, who will be working already. Who won't notice he would be gone until it was too late._

"I understand."

"It's your own choice, and your own responsibility. But I expect you to behave for the rest of the Christmas holidays in exchange for that information."

"Yes, mummy."

She kissed him on the forehead, annihilated the spells securing the room and left, in the knowledge that she had just made Sherlock's life infinitely more pleasurable. But she still worried, and knew it was only a matter of time until everything went downhill – things had the tendency to go that way when Sherlock was involved.

X

In contrast to the rather tension-filled holidays at the Holmes', John and his family had a good time. Harry was bit grumpy, as always, but at least she didn't fight with John (too much).

Like he'd expected, his parents had a serious talk with him about responsibility and being a good boy and not sneaking off in the middle of the night to walk around the castle with his friend Sherlock, but it could've been worse, really, and when he said he was sorry, they smiled and accepted the apology instantly. They knew John was a good boy and the talk had been more of a standard-parent-thing than serious worry about their son – they had enough trouble with Harriet already, John really was the smallest problem (no pun intended.)

They were a bit worried when John told them about the Chamber-of-Secrets happenings, more out of habit then because he actually wanted his parents to worry, but of course they did once he had told them about what he'd learned in school – what happened during the Harry-Potter-era and everything.

When he realized he'd messed up, he quickly changed the topic to making it on the Quidditch team and winning against Slytherin – something they'd already learned about in letters, but hearing it from their son in person was something else entirely.

"And you really play that on flying broomsticks?" his father asked, sounding reluctant to buy that.

"Yes. It's a bit like football. And I'm Keeper, which means I hang around the goal posts – there's three of them, but apart from that, it's just like being a normal goalkeeper."

"Isn't that dangerous, though – can't you fall off the broomsticks?" his mother then asked and John shifted a bit. He hadn't told them about his fall and the fact he'd been hospitalized for three days, just out of fear they would make him stop playing.

"You usually can't fall off; the broomsticks are enchanted to keep you up comfortably." _That wasn't a lie, technically._

Thankfully, his parents left the topic alone after that and continued their meal, talking about other things. It was only that night that his mother came knocking at his door when he was just getting ready for bed. She poked her head in and he told her to come in before climbing into bed, while she sat down on the edge of it.

"Listen, John, I know you're young and adventures are fun and everything – but try not to get into danger with that secret chamber thing, yes? I'm not saying Sherlock is a bad influence- no listen – I'm not saying he's a bad influence and I'd still love to meet him, but don't sneak off with him and get yourself into trouble, alright?"

For a while, John was silent as he thought of a way to put it so he wouldn't lie to his parents. Then, he sighed. "I can't promise that, mum. Sherlock has so many crazy ideas, and he usually gets himself into trouble. I can't just let him wander off by himself." He half-expected his mother to protest, but when she looked at him again, she smiled.

"That's what I thought – his mother implied something like that, too. No, don't look at me like that – we have been talking one or two times, she is a really nice woman. Anyways, just be careful, promise me?"

That, John could promise easily. He didn't _try_ to get into deadly danger, after all!

Over the following weeks, he found himself a bit uneasy with not being able to write to Sherlock, but the holidays nevertheless passed quickly, with New Year's Eve coming and going and then it was already time to get back to King's Cross.

As per usual, Sherlock was already waiting in an empty compartment, staring out the window with an absent look.

"Hey, good to see you – are you alright?" John asked when he stepped in and Sherlock didn't respond.

"Oh, yes, hello John-" he gave him quick nod and then shook his head, as if to get rid of a though. "I take it you had a pleasant holiday?"

John didn't know on what facts Sherlock had deduced that, but he had in fact had a great time, so he just smiled and nodded. "And you? Your family was over, right?"

"Yes, yes. A joy, as always." Sherlock said that with a indifferent gesture with his hand and John shrugged and sat down across his friend, looking out of the window. He took a second look when he saw his mother standing next to some woman who-

"Sherlock, is that your mum?" Obviously, that was what Sherlock had been watching so closely before John had entered.

"Yes."

"Wow she-" John studied her for a moment. "-she really looks a lot like you."

"People tell me I look more like my mother, while Mycroft takes after our father."

"Well, that's nice isn't it? I mean-"

"John, mate, good to see you!" Greg called from the compartment door and grinned before shoving his trunk in, followed by Zack. "How have your holidays been?" And while the train twitched and then started to move, the boys were already busy greeting each other (well, Sherlock sitting in his usual place, reserved as always) and exchanging stories about the holidays and Christmas presents, they made the journey back to Hogwarts, excited for the things yet to come.


	7. Second Year - Part II

**"**Why didn't I notice that tedious day last year?" Sherlock asked, poking at a heart garland in disgust.

"Because," John replied, batting his hand away, "we were hiding in the library all day to sneak in the Forbidden Section where we, if I recall correctly, were being _screamed at_ by a bloody book and ended up being chased by Filch!"

"But still – you'd think I'd noticed something about it," Sherlock kept buggering and John sighed exasperated.

"Yes, the in-the-corner-snogging couples were easily to ignore."

"I must've been in my mind-palace."

John highly doubted that – in the time he'd known Sherlock, he'd quickly figured out that the boy might be a genius, but he was definitely more than bad when it came around social knowledge. While John had seen him fake various emotions and he could change his demeanor like other people changed their clothes, affection and acting on it was something he couldn't get his head around. Of course he understood what people were doing when they were kissing, but the _why_ seemed beyond his understanding or at least beyond his interest.

To be honest, John wasn't very interested in kissing, either – it seemed like a really wet, soggy affaire and he wasn't quite sure what to actually do besides putting his lips on someone else's, but after all, he understood the reasons for kissing. Or holding hands – and no, it was not just to keep up with someone whilst running, like Sherlock seemed to think.

Valentine's day had arrived anyways, despite Sherlock's not-caring for it and the castle was decked out in garlands and balloons in heart-shape, while white doves were sitting on the windowsills, always in pairs, and Howler-like letters delivered love messages to students at random times. Classes had been interrupted more than once so far with these letters singing out short poems or just simple, shy notes to students who usually got very red in the face when receiving one.

Most of the teachers supported or at least didn't mind the letters, such as Professor Slughorn, who joked about love potions and on public demand, showed the students a simple love potion in a jar, although forbidding them to touch it or just thinking of drinking it. Apparently, love potions could be quite dangerous.

Professor McGonagall, in her function as headmistress, had been indifferent to the various love letters during the breakfast but when some of the older students started to make up lewd, ambiguous rhymes and send them around, waiting for the letters to chant them loudly, she moved into action.

A Slytherin with heavy acne in his face had made up an especially lewd letter that, following a poor Ravenclaw sixth-year who tried to escape it, chanted loudly:  
_  
"In Ravenclaw they got the wits  
And Suzie's also got big ti-"_

John looked horrified when he heard it, but thankfully a quick flick of Professor Flitwick's wand set the letter aflame before it could end the dubious song. Even the Professor seemed shocked at that song and from then on, all singing love letters were bewitched to be G-rated, for the good of everyone.

"That was a horrible thing to do," John stated, sending the cackling Slytherin a disgusted look, while Sherlock, on the other hand, watched John intently.

"Why does it bother you what he composed about her? You know neither of them."

"It's not nice exposing people like that. Look, other people really enjoy getting these letters-" he pointed towards two grinning girls who listened to a heartfelt letter, obviously written by a boy who was hiding behind some pillars, only a few meters away, "-and that Slytherin ruined that experience for her."

Sherlock contemplated for a while, before telling John with an indifferent look on his face: "If that is of any interest for you – the Slytherin is one of the two coming out of the bathroom stall last year. He's not even interested in girls."

"He's what?!" John's anger only got stronger and he clenched a fist. "We need to go after him!"

"You can't call him out on being… gay." Sherlock looked like he tasted that word for the first time and while John wasn't sure, he had a feeling like that was the word for when boys liked boys. What surprised him most, though, was what Sherlock obviously thought of him.

"What – no! I'm not going to call him out on… that. But he's one of the guys who punched you!"

Sherlock looked genuinely surprised for a split-second, before his usual calm face was back, and he only raised an eyebrow. "John, he's almost twice as tall as you. I doubt you will stand a chance."

John debated this in his head, turning between looking at the guy and Sherlock and finally, he sighed and grumbled: "Just so you know – when being _that_ charming, you'll win no hearts."

His friend replied nothing to that, and finally, they made their way towards the Transfiguration classroom for their next lesson. They met Greg and Zack in front of the still closed door and the boys talked for a while, before they were interrupted by one of the singing love-letters that hovered in front of them.

Greg and John exchanged glances – both boys had received letters today already, just sweet, anonymous notes, but still – and they suspected it had to do with their success in the Quidditch matches against Slytherin and Ravenclaw, but that newly arrived letter turned out to be directed at Sherlock. _Sherlock Holmes had just received a love letter._

The Slytherin seemed really confused at it and watched with narrowed eyes how the letter unfolded itself and then started to recite – at least it didn't sing –

"_Dear Sherlock, you look really pretty when you smile. I hope you have a great Valentine's day. MH"_

Sherlock looked absolutely dumbstruck for a moment, before turning to John with an unbelieving expression on his face: "What am I supposed to _do_?! And who is MH?"

And at that, John just couldn't hold back his laughter, especially since Zack and Greg were already holding hands in front of their mouths in order not to laugh out loud at the Slytherin's reaction to that sweet note. Between laughter, John managed to press out: "You're the genius, Sherlock – I'm sure MH is not Mycroft!" By now, John held onto Greg for dear life. "And you don't do anything – besides maybe smile, like the girl says."

Sherlock still looked utterly disturbed when someone cleared their throat behind the boys and John, still grinning, turned around to face two young Ravenclaws. He recognized them from Charms class, one being Sarah Sawyer and the other a quiet girl named Molly.

Molly had been the first victim to be petrified, but after the spell had stopped working after like a day or two, she hadn't been able to tell who had petrified her – she couldn't even remember how she'd ended up next to the bathroom on the first floor. Sherlock had been insistent on questioning her, but after 10 minutes of the Slytherin growing increasingly frustrated with the girl and Molly not getting out a single phrase and simply staring at Sherlock with wide eyes, John had managed to pull his friend away and leave the poor girl alone.

"Hi!" Sarah smiled at John. "I was wondering if you maybe wanted to go for a walk with me after school today?" She looked at the Gryffindor expectantly.

John wasn't sure what to do. He was overly aware of the eyes of his friends on him, but Sarah seemed like a nice girl, so he decided to go for it and nodded, smiling back. "Yes, alright."

"Great, see you later then!" She gave him one last look before turning around again and walking away with Molly, giggling and whispering with the brown-haired girl. John stared after them for a moment before he felt Zack nudge him.

"Looks like you got a _girlfriend!_"

John felt his face heat up and he nudged Zack back, telling him: "She only wants to walk around a bit! That doesn't mean she wants to be my girlfriend…" He looked insecure now. "Or does it?!"

"Her cheeks were flushed and her pupils were dilated while she talked to you, so there is attraction to you," Sherlock rattled down monotonously, looking bored. "And from the way she was giggling with the other girl, it seems like your agreement to her plan was important to her personally."

"Oh wow…" John wasn't sure what to say to it – he knew Sherlock was obviously right, he was always right with his deductions – but suddenly, he really felt under pressure. Did Sarah really want to be his girlfriend? It was Valentine's Day, after all. But he wasn't ready for a relationship, now, was he? He was only 13 after all! But then again, that was probably the age for that. Greg had turned 13 a few weeks ago and he had shared his thoughts about a Hufflepuff second-year with John already, thinking he maybe was in love with her. It had only been a small crush, but a crush nevertheless.

"I can't go out with her – I need to tell her that!"

Sherlock cocked his head. "Why are you scared?"

"I'm not- I'm not scared!" John protested, but knew it was the wrong thing to do when Sherlock looked annoyed and pointed out: "Your pulse is quickening and you started sweating. Also, you speak too fast."

Admittedly, a friend who could read you like an open book was sometimes not so great, but at least Greg and Zack tried to cheer up John rather than unsettle him even more.

"You need to go through with it; you can't just run after her and tell her in front of Molly that you don't want to go with her!"

John took a deep breath to calm his nerves. "Yeah… you're probably right." And suddenly, something else came to his mind. "Greg, do you know Molly's last name? I knew, but I can't remember…"

His friend narrowed his eyebrows. "Hooper. Why?"

Grinning, John looked at Sherlock, who, despite being a genius, didn't seem to catch on – but John knew exactly who MH was and he already waited for the moment Sherlock found out, too. He just felt a bit sorry for poor Molly already.

X

Thankfully, Greg, Zack and Sherlock had let go of the Sarah-topic that day; that was, until the last class of the day ended and John started to get increasingly fidgety at the prospect of meeting up with Sarah.

Now Greg had turned to giving him helpful advice (such as 'Don't talk about gross things' and 'If she tries to kiss you, don't bite her') whereas Sherlock, who'd seemed to have forgotten about John's date, as they now called it, naturally accompanied him on the way to the Entrance Hall, happily talking about some sort of experiment where John's help was required.

"I can't come with you!" John finally said, having reached the Entrance Hall and seeing Sarah waiting for him next to the door. "I'm going for a walk with Sarah."

Sherlock looked highly displeased and unbelieving, as if it was a repellant idea that something was more interesting than experimenting, but John had no nerves to discuss this further and simply waved at his friend before jogging down the last stairs.

He smiled at Sarah nervously when he reached her, but felt better when she smiled back. "Where'd you want to go?" he asked, opening the doors for them.

"Maybe around the lake?" she suggested and he agreed, walking next to her in silence for a minute, before they laughed embarrassedly at the same time, looking at each other surprised and finally, the ice was broken. They spent the next half hour walking at the bank of the lake, chatting about classes, their families (Sarah was Muggle-born, too) and, finally, the topic that seemed to be inevitable when it came to John – Sherlock.

"How is it being friends with Sherlock Holmes?" Sarah asked curiously. "I mean, you seem to be one of the only people who even get near him by choice."

John shrugged. "He's alright to be around – really, he's a great friend."

"Do you know what people say about him? And his brother?"

"I know. And frankly, that's a bad thing to do – they're not that bad, really. They just… they kind of live in their own world, I guess. I mean, I can't say much about Mycroft, but at least Sherlock does. He's a genius, but he's not so good with people."

Sarah looked interested. "So he really is a genius? I mean, we have History of Magic together, but aside from starting a discussion with Professor Binns almost every time, he doesn't say much. I only know what other people told me…"

"He deduces things by looking at people really closely. He even deduced that you-" John realized too late that he didn't mean to say the last part, but now it was out and Sarah, being a bright and also stubborn girl, quickly caught on.

"What was he saying about me?" She looked more intrigued than annoyed, but before John could think of a way to get out of this conversation, something touched his leg and he actually jumped a bit before recognizing Auriga.

She'd grown quite a bit and was now, after one and a half year in Sherlock's care, she was almost too big for looking like a normal cat and the two large teeth coming out of her mouth at either side and were characteristic for her breed were shining brightly in the fading light of the sun. She carried a piece of parchment in her mouth and gave John one of her Sherlock-looks.

"Who's that?" Sarah asked, hiding behind John the slightest bit – the Gryffindor found himself oddly pleased at that – but looking at Auriga interestedly.

"That's Sherlock's cat, Auriga," John explained before bending down to retrieve the parchment.

_There's been another victim. I have a theory. Come as soon as convenient. – SH_

John sighed. For once, he hated the excitement racing through his body at Sherlock's words, because he knew he'd have to leave Sarah, but he just couldn't help himself – if there really was another victim and Sherlock had an idea about what was going on, he'd eventually go and follow his idea, with or without John, and get into trouble. And somehow, John found it to be his duty to, if not keep Sherlock out of trouble, at least face trouble with him.

"You have to go, don't you?" Sarah asked, disappointment in her voice, but at least she was still smiling at him. John shifted but ultimately, nodded.

"Well… it was nice talking to you."

"Yeah, you too," John admitted and rubbed his neck, still a bit uncomfortable with just leaving her behind.

"Maybe we can do it again soon?" She looked at him hopefully and he couldn't hold back the grin spreading on his face.

"Absolutely!"

"I'll see you around, then."

"Yes…" Leaving seemed a bit awkward, but John finally turned around, having made approximately two steps when Sarah caught his arm and he turned back in surprise.

"You know, I think I know what Sherlock deduced," she said with a smile and then leaned in with only a bit hesitation to plant a shy kiss on his cheek. John flushed a deep red and tried to think of something to say, but Sarah, now a bit flushed, too, only waved and turned around to walk away by herself.

He couldn't help but stare after her, until he felt a sharp pain in his ankle and looked down cursing, only to find Auriga staring back at him with an annoyed look on her face.

"Oh, sod off!" John hissed, but finally caught himself again and started to walk back to the castle. The cat continued to give him a glare and he muttered back: "Oi, don't give me that look – I'm coming, aren't I? Bloody Sherlock calls and I'm running." Then, he felt stupid for fighting with a cat and shut up again, making the rest of the walk back in silence with the black cat strolling along next to him.

Sherlock waited for him in the Entrance Hall, pacing impatiently and when John finally arrived, he gave the clock a pointed look before locking his eyes on John.

_Cheeks flushed. Pupils still slightly dilated. Panting, maybe from the exertion, more likely from his walk with the girl. Clear annoyance from the disturbance. Traces of something sticky, most likely lip-gloss, on his cheek. Punctures in his trousers around his ankles, from Auriga trying to make him hurry up._

"I take it your _walk_ was successful, then."

The Slytherin watched interestedly how the smaller boy's cheeks flushed before he answered, somewhat snarky: "It was, until you send your house tiger."

"You never minded her before?"

"Well that was before- uhm-"

_Before the hormones got the better of him,_ Sherlock's brain finished, but he decided to ignore the problem for now. Because it was definitely a problem, or at least would turn into one if John's body really decided to hit puberty now and the older boy would be drugged by his own hormones for the next years – his availability would go down and that would be more than bad for Sherlock. But for now, there were more important matters at hand.

"Yes, I know. Before Sarah Sawyer kissed you." Sherlock just ignored the protests and kept talking. "There's been another victim – they found her in the same spot the first girl was found in, not ten minutes ago. I knew because I walked past when Professor McGonagall and Madame Pomfrey were carrying her away."

John swallowed down his anger and now, admittedly intrigued, asked: "Who was the victim?"

"A Ravenclaw third-year named Irene Adler. She's two years older than you because she had to repeat the third year after spending one year abroad with her family."

The Gryffindor narrowed his eyes. "Irene Adler? Why do I know that name?"

Sherlock looked up. "She's a Beater of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team. Oh, and she was the one who was caught snogging with the Hufflepuff Prefect just before Christmas, right behind the door of the classroom said Prefect's girlfriend just finished class."

"Aah yes, I remember that – the whole school talked about nothing else for days. Oh but why do you remember that? You usually don't care for that sort of gossip."

The Slytherin smiled fondly. "Oh but I was quite fascinated at the really powerful Confusing Concoction she administered to the angry Prefect and his friends to stop them from going after her."

"Ooookay," John accepted, one eyebrow raised. "So, you said you had a theory on Irene's petrification – tell me?"

Sherlock looked confused. "I never said it was on Irene's petrification. No, about her, there's really nothing new. Petrification will go away in 24 hours, no one saw a thing. No clues here. I have a theory about the experiment I need your help with-"

"Sherlock, what the hell?" John felt his anger come back with full force. "You fetched me away from Sarah for that?! I already told you I don't have time for your experiment today!"

"You came by choice. And I also had information about a new victim," Sherlock encountered, clearly taken aback at John's outburst.

"You're unbelievable-" the Gryffindor took a deep breath and brought his hand to his forehead, before shaking his head. "You know what? Forget it. I'm going to the common room – and don't think of sending me any note whatsoever today, I'm not in the mood for anything else!" And with that, he simply turned around and started to climb the stairs, leaving a baffled Sherlock Holmes back in the Entrance Hall.

X

He still stared after John when some fifth-years came out of the Great Hall and saw him standing there, confused look on his face. They had obviously heard the last part of their conversation and when they passed Sherlock, one of them called out: "Hey, Holmes, trouble with your boyfriend?"

Sherlock didn't even bother to answer, but simply turned around and started to walk towards the dungeons, but the fifth-year, a Ravenclaw, didn't stop. "Did he leave you on Valentine's Day? That must hurt – that is, if you can feel. No one's sure about that, _freak_."

Before Sherlock could stop himself, his mouth already formed words, and although he instantly knew he'd regret saying it, he couldn't stop his tongue anymore: "You mean like your mother left your father for a Muggle last year?"

Truth to be told, that wasn't even a deduction, it had just been discussed in his family in the summer, since the Ravenclaw was from an old family, too, and the incident had made waves. However, it didn't matter how Sherlock had known this, because now the Ravenclaw got a red face when the anger bubbled up in him and he made a threatening step towards Sherlock, drawing his wand.

Sherlock saw the first spell coming and quickly fended it off, but the Ravenclaw was not alone and he was three years older and therefore knew spells Sherlock knew he couldn't fend off for forever. Right when he thought about running as a better option, though, someone appeared behind him and the three Ravenclaws stepped back surprised, right when the red flash of a Disarming Charm hit the one who'd called out on Sherlock and sent his wand to the ground with a clattering sound.

"I suggest you leave my brother alone now and retreat to your common room," the dangerously quiet voice of Mycroft came from next to Sherlock, who resisted the urge of rolling his eyes at his brother's dramaturgy – he was far busier with staring at the top of the staircase, from where the Disarming Charm had been coming, but of course there was no-one there anymore.

The Ravenclaws made off and the older Holmes gave his brother a look with a raised eyebrow. "Maybe you learn to avoid situations like that in the future. Control yourself, for God's sake!"

Sherlock, not in the mood to talk to his brother, just lowered his head for a moment to indicate his understanding before simply skipping past his brother and making his way down to the dungeons and his dorm. Halfway there, he found Auriga chewing on the remains of what looked like a gigantic rat and, remembering the Disarming Charm, getting out a piece of parchment, quickly scribbling something down and tossing it to her.

He still couldn't put his fingers on why he actually cared and what made him do so, but he knew Auriga would get the parchment to its destination. Content, but still confused, he then walked past her, disappearing in the darkness of the underground.

X

John was still deciding whether he was in a good or bad mood when he finally made it to the common room – he still had to think of his date with Sarah, which put a dopey grin on his face, but there was also Sherlock's stubbornness and ignorance. Also, the fact that he once again had gotten into trouble and it was only because John had walked slower when he was up the stairs that he had heard what was going on in the Entrance Hall.

At first, he had decided not to care, but then Sherlock had to be cheeky again and he knew it was only a matter of time before he'd end up with a broken nose or something worse again.

Just when John had reached the top of the stairs again, Sherlock was being cornered and without thinking much, he'd fired a Disarming Charm, getting ready to do so again – but then Mycroft had appeared and brought the situation under control within seconds, so John just huffed and turned around again, this time actually making his way through the castle like he'd intended.

Back in the common room he was instantly waved over by Greg and Zack who had filled in Mike and Alec about John's date and soon, John found himself in the position to tell them everything about it, which he gladly did. Zack, Greg and Mike were hanging on his lips, but Alec seemed a bit off, staring into the fireplace absently, although he claimed he was alright when John startled him with a question for his wellbeing.

When he came to the kiss on the cheek, he blushed again, and even more so when the other boys whistled and made wide eyes.

"So, is she your girlfriend now?" Mike asked, interestedly, after John had finished his report, and the blond shrugged.

"I don't know. Maybe? She didn't say anything…"

"I think girls want to be asked that by the boys," Greg thought loudly, and Zack nodded.

They discussed the matter for quite a while, until it was time for bed and they made their way up to the dorm. When he came to his bed, John couldn't help but make a face at the sight of Auriga curled up on his pillow, staring at him from bright blue eyes.

For a moment, he contemplated just kicking her out, without reading the note she carried, but something in her behaviour, all calm and nice, stopped him from doing so and when he slowly reached out for the parchment, she dropped it willingly and then rolled on her back, exposing her furry belly for him to scratch. It was really hard to stay mad at her (or her owner) when she behaved like that and, sighing, John sat down on the bed, one hand tangled in the soft fur on the cat's stomach while he unfolded the note with the other hand.

All his concerns of being called for a nightly wandering through the castle were blown away, however, when he read the single word, hastily scribbled down.

_"Thanks."_

"Geez, tell the big clot it's fine," John mumbled, rolling his eyes, but his anger completely gone. Sherlock was a pain in the ass sometimes, but he always managed to surprise John in one way or the other and a thank-you-note certainly wasn't what the Gryffindor had expected. He didn't worry about scribbling something down, he knew Auriga was capable of conveying what he'd said to her in some way and with one last scratch behind her ears, he quickly carried her out of the dorm again and sent her on his way.

X

It had been almost two months without an incident when, on the morning of the 8th of May, the match Gryffindor against Hufflepuff was taking place. Although he had successfully survived two matches already, against Slytherin and, back in January, against Ravenclaw, John still felt giddy when he got up that morning and grabbed his equipment.

Greg was almost ready to go and while the Beater got ready, John watched amused how Zack and Mike painted their respective faces in red and gold paint, clearly as enthusiastic about cheering as John was about playing. Alec, never being overly loud anyways, sat on his bed and watched them, too, smiling, but John thought he looked a bit sick, with bags under his eyes and the strawberry blond hair styled more carelessly than usual – and that meant something, seeing as Alec always took great care of his appearance.

John decided to stay away, just in case his dorm-mate caught the flu or something – the last thing he needed was getting the flu now that the days finally got warmer and nicer. Besides, Sherlock was still investigating about the petrifications and the Chamber of Secrets and knowing his luck, he would receive a note soon, calling him to Sherlock's side in the middle of the night.

Finally, Greg was good to go and John called "See you later," before the two Quidditch players made their way through the castle and towards the Quidditch pitch.

"I think we've got pretty good chances against the Hufflepuffs today," Greg shared his thoughts while they walked down the soft hills towards the pitch. "Their Chasers are not as good as ours and one of their Beaters apparently has hurt his back a week ago and is still not feeling better – and they can't replace him."

John contemplated that for a minute, before he replied: "But their Seeker is way better than ours – did you see him against Ravenclaw? Ended the game after 20 minutes!"

"Then I gotta beat him off his broom," Greg grinned and winked, while John started laughing.

"You do that."

They'd reached the changing rooms where the rest of the team was already putting on their Quidditch robes with the name on the back and John started to put on the additional pads a Keeper had to wear. He always felt a bit ridiculous walking in it, but it sure served its purpose in the air and he made sure everything was tied securely – he didn't plan on falling again, but if he did, he didn't want to die and he couldn't rely on someone trying to slow him down again.

Capper gave them a little speech while John could hear the spectators fill the stands. "… and Watson?" John looked up, trying to look like he'd actually listened while Greg next to him startled, clearly having zoned out minutes ago, too. "Try to stay on your broom this time."

John made a face, but nodded. It wasn't like it was his fault – but there was no time to discuss the topic any longer, because they had to go out and greet the Hufflepuffs.

Broomsticks in their hands, they made their way out on the field and were greeted by an uproar of the crowd. If he had to wager, he'd said that there was an equal number of fans for every team, with the Ravenclaws supporting both teams and the Slytherins rooting for Hufflepuff, simply because Gryffindor had wiped the field with them in the first match, but there were some Slytherins rooting for Gryffindor too, such as Sherlock who – if he was there, John wasn't sure – would sit with Mike, Alec and Zack. (He'd had a big fight with Mycroft about pressuring him into cheering for Slytherin or, well cheering at all, and it had ended in favour for Sherlock.) John thought he spotted Mycroft in the stands of the Prefects but then Madame Hooch blew the whistle as a sign to get ready and, blinking into the bright light of a beautiful, but still a bit crisp day, John got on his broomstick and watched how the Golden Snitch was released, followed by the Bludgers and finally, the Quaffle was thrown in the air and he pushed off the ground, reaching the goal posts within seconds, thanks to his incredible Firebolt. Like every time when he was flying it, he thought he had to thank Sherlock once more – the Firebolt had become one of his most treasured possessions.

It soon turned out that Greg had been right – the Hufflepuffs were in fact lousy Chasers and John could hold them at bay easily if they made it past everyone else and were close enough to actually aim at the goal posts. And while they failed to score, the Gryffindor Chasers scored with an ease that was almost ridiculous.

However, the whole scenery changed when the Hufflepuff Seeker suddenly sat up straighter and started a nosedive towards the middle of the pitch. John watched how their own Seeker quickly latched onto the Hufflepuff, but he was just too slow. In the meantime, the score being 150 – 0 for Gryffindor, Greg reached out and sent a Bludger right into one of the Hufflepuff Chasers who dropped the Quaffel, which was instantly caught by Capper.

"_Nice shot from Lestrade - Capper's got the Quaffle, and he makes his way past the Hufflepuff Chasers, but Thompson, Hufflepuff's Seeker is obviously close to catch the Snitch – Capper's just managed to avoid a Bludger and he's close to thro- WHAT IS GOING ON, THOMPSON REACHES OUT AND-"_

The commentator was silenced by a whistle of Madame Hooch and while John was still confused what was going on – just like everybody else, obviously – the score rattled one last time and after seconds of absolute silence on the field, the commentator announced, voice shaking: _"THIS IS INCREDIBLE – HUFFLEPUFF CATCHES THE SNITCH BUT GRYFFINDOR WINS WITH A SCORE OF 160 TO 150 BY ONE LAST GOAL OF CAPPER!"_

The exploding cheers in the Gryffindor stands branded up John's ears as the rest of his team came whooshing past him and he followed as they took a spin around the pitch in a formation which soon featured John at the front, seeing as he got the fastest broom and did the incredible job of fighting off every single attempt of the Hufflepuffs to score – if it hadn't been for him not letting through a single throw of the Hufflepuffs, they hadn't won, not even with the last goal of Capper.

When they passed the stands with the staff, even Professor McGonagall seemed excited and applauded smiling, while Mycroft, who indeed sat on the stand with the other Prefects and the Head Girl lowered his head slightly, a thin smile on his face.

Back on the ground, masses of Gryffindors stormed on the field, lifting the team and the Quidditch Cup which they'd won due to their win today on their shoulders and carrying them towards the castle where obviously a big celebration was going to take place.

John and Greg shared excited looks while laughing along with the others, the adrenaline still rushing through their bodies.

X

The Gryffindors made their way back to the dorm in a drunken glory, still carrying John and the rest of the team on their shoulders and John relished in the feeling of having won his team the Quidditch Cup – it somehow made him feel like he'd made up for the loss of House points last year.

Speaking of – the other half of the action that had led him to this loss was currently looming in a corner at the staircase in the Entrance Hall, shooting him meaningful looks.

For a moment, John contemplated to just ignore it but he knew that Sherlock knew he'd seen him and, still grinning, he wriggled free from the hold of his team and House-mates and, promising to catch up in a minute, made his way over to Sherlock, who looked at him impatiently.

"We won – we won the bloody Quidditch Cup!" John greeted him, chanting in excitement and knowing very well that that displeased Sherlock, but frankly not giving a damn about it – he just felt too great.

That changed rapidly, however, when Sherlock brought the hand he'd been holding behind his back to his front and John stared in shock at the rooster with the slit throat that dangled from Sherlock's fingers.

Even in endorphin-drunken state (although quickly sobering up at the sight in front of him) John knew that was none of Sherlock's experiments.

"Do you think that's to do with the Chamber, too?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. Filch found them earlier today and the staff already knows about it, but decided to not tell the students. I managed to sneak one away to do some experiments, see if the culprit left any traces."

"Alright. Tell me if you find out anything – oh hey, have you even been to the match today?"

The Slytherin gave him a pointed look. "Of course. I only left when it was obvious you would win."

John tried to hide how happy he was that Sherlock had bothered to come to the game, even without him pestering the younger boy about it for days before, although he didn't quite understand how Sherlock could know they would win if it had been that close and – most importantly – that suspense-packed. However, he planned on getting back to the celebration at some point that evening, so he didn't question Sherlock's statement and just nodded at him before leaving.

He could still hear the laughter and random chants from his fellow Gryffindors from afar and made quick way up to the common room, mumbling the password and slipping in, just minutes after the others had made it there. There was already a big celebration going on and John only skipped up the stairs to his dorm to put his Quidditch robes there. It was quiet in the dorm, but just when he took off the robe with his name on the back, the bathroom door opened and Alec came out, obviously startled at John's presence. He looked a bit pale, but smiled at John and said: "Congratulations on the win!"

John smiled back and nodded. "Why are you not in the common room celebrating?"

For a moment, Alec narrowed his eyebrows, but then he shook his head. "Just needed to wash my hands."

"Oh, alright. I'll see you downstairs, then," John replied and made his way over to the bathroom, too, intending to just splash his face a bit while Alec took the stairs down to the celebration.

When John leaned over the sink, he narrowed his eyes at some reddish traces, but seeing as he'd already turned on the tap, the traces disappeared quickly. He just shrugged then and, after washing his face and hands, moved downstairs where currently butter beer was handed around, enjoying the celebration and being treated like a hero. And although he'd bonded with his House a long time ago, this evening was the first time he felt like this was where he belonged, and the people surrounding him were family.

X

In one of the rare moments when he wasn't busy with Quidditch training, studying for exams or spending time with Sherlock, John realized that he hadn't talked to Sarah much after Valentine's Day, and if they did, neither brought up the kiss or what it made them.

Their conversations usually went about school stuff, or John's Quidditch talent and of course occasionally the Chamber-of-Secrets-happenings, but they never met up and now that John thought about it, he realized that he wouldn't have time for it, so it really didn't make a difference. That didn't stop him from thinking back to when she had pecked his cheek and the nice feeling of it.

Sherlock usually rolled his eyes when he noticed John's absent look and dreamy stare and blew something up to get the Gryffindors attention again.

And even when he didn't blow things up, Sherlock busied John exceptionally well. Especially remarkable was one incident towards the end of May: John and Mike were in the library, studying, when Greg came running in, panting heavily.

"What's going on?" John inquired. Greg didn't look overly funky or alarmed, more like he couldn't decide between laughing and worrying and it took him a full two minutes until he had calmed down enough to press out: "Sherlock's in the Hospital Wing – and he's… he's…"

By now, John had jumped up and gathered his things hastily, already wondering what his friend had done this time. "He's what?!"

Finally, Greg couldn't hold himself together and burst out laughing. "He's puking slugs!"

John froze on the spot and turned his head slowly from his bag to Greg. "He's. Puking. _Slugs_."

Greg nodded, laughter slowly ebbing away, but a grin still plastered on his face.

"That's… awful!" John exclaimed, but couldn't help the grin tucking at the corners of his mouth. "I gotta see him- I mean, to make sure he's alright!"

"Sure mate," Greg laughed and then the two made their way to the Hospital wing, leaving behind Mike who wondered, not for the first time, if his friends were alright in their heads.

They didn't have to look for Sherlock, but could hear the retching from the entrance doors to the wing already. John hurried through the rows of beds until he found his friend, sitting on a bed with a bucket in his hands, looking decidedly miserable. Just when he looked up and found John's eyes, his own eyes widened and he suddenly doubled over and retched, followed by a slurping sound and the splash of something hitting the bucket.

Although the image of Sherlock vomiting slugs was still hilarious, the miserable look on the Slytherins face made John feel bad and he sat down next to Sherlock, patting his back awkwardly. That earned him a glare and probably an answer, that was drowned in another retch and now John could actually see how Sherlock regurgitated a slimy slug and let it fall into the bucket.

"What happened?!" John asked, directed to both Greg and Sherlock and since Sherlock couldn't respond, Greg quickly explained: "He was talking to a Slytherin and suddenly the older boy drew his wand and said something. Sherlock was not fast enough and got it in the chest. He toppled over and when I finally reached him, the Slytherin was gone already and Sherlock threw up the first slug."

A mumbled moan come from the retching Slytherin and John repeated the patting of his back, trying to make him feel better.

"It wasn't even-" Sherlock gasped, looked green again and spat out another slug before looking at John, sweat forming on his forehead. "It wasn't even a real spell, he just said 'Eat snails'!" He gagged again.

"You need to be more careful with your deductions," John told him, scolding him slightly, but on the same time keeping up the rubbing of his back to make sure Sherlock knew he was on his side.

"But _John_-" the Slytherin whined and, after throwing up some more slugs, "-slugs aren't even snails, there just a gastropod similar to snails, they don't have houses!"

"Well, you should be glad that they don't have houses," Greg replied dryly while John couldn't help but smile at the way Sherlock's biggest issue seemed to be the biological inaccuracy of the curse.

"Can't Madame Pomfrey help you?" he then asked, curious as to why Sherlock was still throwing up.

"She already gave him something, it should help the curse to wear off any minute now," Greg quickly explained and, as if that had been the silent command, Sherlock suddenly stopped retching and, after a few moments still bent over the bucket, he slowly looked up, pale and sweaty, shaking, but otherwise healed.

Of course John's silent prayer that Sherlock had learned a lesson were in vain, but the Slytherin had the incredible luck that, despite him never voicing it, he had John and Greg who made sure he never got into too much trouble. John was around most of the time, and was more than ready to defend the two of them if they had stumbled upon one secret or the other and Sherlock – not showing any sign of people skills whatsoever – simply blurted it out; and on the rare times when John was not around, Greg seemed to be the one who usually found Sherlock and took him to the Hospital Wing before getting John.

Where other people had one guardian angel, Sherlock obviously needed two (or three, if you counted Mycroft who, between abducting John from time to time to inquire him about his brother – John never talked – made sure his brother survived ever day). But what did you expect? It was Sherlock bloody Holmes.

X

"Alec up already?" John asked with a glance to his friend's bed as they dressed in the morning. Mike mumbled something unintelligible while fighting with his pullover, and Greg shrugged.

He wasn't at breakfast, either, but neither of the boys was worried until he didn't show up for Defence Against the Dark Arts. Sherlock didn't even notice until they pointed it out to him, and then all he said was: "He hit his head pretty hard the last time we practiced the Body-Bind-Curse in this class – maybe he's just scared and doesn't want to come."

"Yeah, maybe…" Zack said, but John could see in everyone's faces that they didn't quite believe that. It was simply very unlikely for Alec to skip a class.

They seriously started to worry when he didn't show up for lunch, and went to tell Professor McGonagall, who instantly checked the school with the help of some spells – with the outcome that Alec had simply disappeared. However, just when the Head of Gryffindor House tried to sent John and his friends back to class, one of the portraits in the Entrance Hall, where they had talked to her, told the professor that a new message had appeared, right in front of the eyes of the portraits on the first floor.

"You stay here!" Professor McGonagall told them and rushed away, soon followed by the other staff member she seemed to have alarmed somehow.

"Do you think this has to do with Alec's disappearance?" Mike asked.

John looked grimly. "Maybe. We need to see the message." He looked at Sherlock, who could barely contain his excitement at this and then scurried up the stairs to the first floor, followed by his friends.

Finding the message wasn't hard – the letters were bright red, and smeared across the wall just like the first message. They all hid behind a pillar to not be discovered by the staff and finally read what was written on the wall.

"_His skeleton will lie in the chamber forever."_

"Alec's been taken to the Chamber of Secrets?!" Zack hissed and earned a shush and glare from Sherlock, Zack and Greg, while John leaned in a bit, trying to catch what the teachers were discussing.

":.. we need to call the Ministry. Harry Potter never went into detail about the Chamber – God knows what's happening to poor Mr. Woodlight at the moment."

"I'm as worried as you are, but this all looks like a bad joke. Someone is just trying to recreate what happened years ago – maybe Mr. Woodlight will be released soon. I'm afraid I can't call the Ministry without waiting the usual 12 hours after his disappearance," Professor McGonagall replied.

A heated discussion went on between the teachers after that, and the four Gryffindors and Sherlock slowly retreated, until they were away far enough to speak freely.

"So they're not gonna do anything until tonight?" Greg asked worried.

"I think so."

"Well, even if they send for the Ministry tonight, say, after supper, it will still take them a while to get here, not to speak of the fact that they won't know what to do," Mike stated and the others – besides Sherlock – sighed.

"There's nothing we can do, though," Zack said matter-of-factly and they grumbled, but slowly made their way back to classes.

John gave Sherlock a glance when he noticed how silent the boy was, and the Slytherin stared back, eyes hard. However, John shouldn't find out what was going on in his friends' head until after classes that afternoon.

X

Sherlock waited for John outside the greenhouses after his last lesson and walked with him towards the castle. Half-way there, he spoke out what had been on his mind all afternoon.

"We need to find the Chamber."

John wasn't sure if he dreaded those words or wanted to hear them. It seemed exciting, yes, and he had known something like that was on his friends' mind, but… "Sherlock, this is not some sort of adventure – whoever kidnapped Alec might be dangerous."

Sherlock studied him for a minute or so, before replying: "When I told you for the first time that something I planned could be dangerous, you showed up nevertheless-"

"Yes, because I couldn't let you run into danger without backup!" John argued back.

"- and you know that I want to solve crimes. Kidnapping clearly is a crime, so why not start with that?"

"_Because_ we're thirteen! We're kids, no matter how grown-up you act! Something inside this Chamber killed people already and petrified a lot of students a while back. Also, it kills roosters, and if we march in there, I doubt it's going to check if we're roosters or not before killing us!" John knew his face was probably red from arguing, and he narrowed his eyes at Sherlock.

The Slytherin sighed and grabbed his arm, pulling him closer. "John, I have reasons to believe that whatever attacked students all these years back is dead now – when Harry Potter found the Chamber, he escaped and I don't think the staff would've let alive whatever lived in there if it was a threat to students. Whoever re-enacts this opening of the Chamber doesn't have the instrumentality for it, that's why the students are just petrified with a spell. And we already stood our ground multiple times. I _know_ we can do it."

John contemplated for a while – in the meantime, they'd reached the castle and made up their way to the second or third floor - closely watched by Sherlock, before he frowned and nodded. "Alright. You're going to go anyways, and given your _tactfulness_, you're surely going to end up in trouble." Sherlock looked confused, but John just ignored it and asked: "Any idea where to start looking for the entrance?"

And Sherlock just grinned before whirling around and starting to bustle down the staircase again, with John following up in a hurry, still looking perplexed.

Their way through the castle ended up in front of a bathroom on the first floor, next to the writing on the wall.

"It all leads to here – the writing, the victims were found here, and this bathroom is deserted for years now."

John, still a bit out of breath, looked at the door and then at Sherlock, with a raised eyebrow. "We can't go in there, it's a girl's bathroom."

"It's _deserted_, John!" Sherlock called out, already halfway through the door. The Gryffindor rolled his eyes, and with one last look to both sides of the hallway, he slipped through the door, too, closing it behind himself.

"Why is it out of order, by the waaaayayaya-" John tried to ask then, but suddenly he felt like someone had poured a bucket of ice water down his back and a silvery-grey shadow whooshed through him.

He was still shivering when the shadow turned out to be the ghost of a girl with two pigtails and a pair of glasses on her nose, hands on her hips.

"What do you think you're doing here, huh?" she asked, sounding really angry and coming a bit closer, her nose inches away from the still perplex John. "This is a girl's bathroom – you have no business being here! Or did you come to throw things through me, like the others do sometimes?!"

"I'm, uhm- no I don't want to throw things- I, uhm-" John stuttered and then tried to look around – or, well, through the ghost – for Sherlock. "Help me out maybe?"

The Slytherin stepped out of one of the stalls and the ghost girl whirled around, rushing over to him. "Another boy?! Can't you read the sign on the door? This is a GIRL'S BATHROOM!"

"Moaning Myrtle, I assume?" Sherlock asked, unfazed by the tantrum the ghost was about to throw.

"Moaning Myrtle, Miserable Myrtle, Four-eyes Myrtle – if you came here to call me names, just tell me!" The ghost was positively fuming by now.

"Uhm, excuse me- Myrtle?" John asked, realizing that Sherlock's way of approaching wasn't going to help them. She whirled around to him again, glaring.

"WHAT?!"

"My friend is really sorry for calling you names – we didn't mean to be rude, really-" John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock who reluctantly smiled and nodded to calm down the dead girl, "-but we wondered – since you live here, you must know everything that's going on here, right?"

Myrtle eyed him for a moment, before giggling and starting to twirl the end of one of her pigtails around her finger. "Yes, I know a lot about this bathroom… and you're really cute… I think I forgive you for coming in here."

John's face heated up and he rubbed his neck, squirming in place. Sherlock took over. "Do you know where the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets is?"

"Who told you to speak?!" Myrtle hissed at him before smiling at John again. "I'm talking to him!"

Sherlock made an impatient sound and sent John a look that told him to come to the point. "Sherlock's right, we're looking for the Chamber – one of our friends is kidnapped and we think he maybe was taken down there."

"Your friend is not a girl, right?" Myrtle asked, eyes narrowed, and when John shook his head, she smiled again sweetly. "Oh, good. The entrance is in here, yes – by the sinks. There is one that doesn't work, you have to say something to it in order for it to open."

At this, Sherlock rushed over to the sinks – straight through a protesting Myrtle, and tried them, until he found the one that wasn't working. John followed over, with Myrtle floating next to him, a bit too close for his liking (the hair on his arm stood on end), and giving him side-glances.

"What do you have to say?" Sherlock inquired, but Myrtle only pouted and looked into another direction pointedly. The Slytherin gave John another look and the Gryffindor sighed before pleading: "Please, Myrtle. What do you have to say for it to open?"

She frowned. "It's more of a hiss, not actual words."

"Of course, Parseltongue!" Sherlock mumbled, while John looked at the ghost intently. "Can you try and make the sound? Please?"

The ghost cocked her head, but finally, she nodded. Then, she floated over to the sink and cleared her throat before making a sound that sounded like she was being strangled. She tried a few times, but just when Sherlock tried to say something, probably to make her stop, the sink made a click and suddenly the whole column started to move, until all of the sinks had sunken into the floor, revealing a large, dark pipe.

While John was still marveling at what he'd just witnessed, Sherlock already sat down at the edge of the pipe and looked up. "You coming?"

"I- yes," John mumbled and quickly sat down, too.

"If you die down there, you're welcome to come back and live with me in my bathroom, if you want to?" Myrtle told him, winking at him coquettish.

"Thank you, that's, uhm, really nice. I'll think about it." He turned to Sherlock and hissed "Let's go, please," before simply letting go of the edge and sliding into the darkness. He heard Sherlock starting to slide, too, and tried to block out the slime and dirt he felt he was sliding through. More pipes were branching off in various directions from their pipe, but none of them was as big as theirs. Their pipe was twisting and turning, but went steadily steeply downwards and soon John knew he had to be even below the dungeons.

Just when he wondered how much longer he'd have to slide, the pipe suddenly ended and he flew through the air one or two meters before crashing on the ground in a dark stone tunnel, just large enough to stand in, and deadly silent.

He tried to get up, but this was the moment Sherlock came flying out of the pipe and knocked him over, both boys ending up in a pile on the ground, limbs tangled.

"Who needs a deadly danger when you're doing a pretty good job in snapping my neck already," John grumbled when he fought his way up from below his friend and got up, bones cracking when he rolled his shoulders.

"At least you already have somewhere to live if you die – Myrtle most graciously offered to share her home with you, after all," Sherlock replied dryly and John snorted.

"Yeah, just make fun about it - you can be so charming if you want to, why did I have to talk to her?"

"Because she fancied you," the Slytherin told him and when he lit his wand, John could see the grin on his face. "I'd say you're a heartbreaker, but I think I have to rephrase it, seeing as she's already dead."

"Oi, watch it-" John nudged him, "or I'll just leave you down here."

Sherlock fell silent, although they both knew this was not going to happen, and, after John lit his wand, too, they started their journey down the pipe. For a while, the only sound was their footsteps; that was, until something cracked under Sherlock's foot and both boys jumped the slightest bit, looking down.

The sight was spooky, to say the least. From on where they were standing, the floor was littered in bones of various small mammals, rats, mostly, and when they made a few tentative steps forwards, the light of their wands fell on a gigantic snakeskin, bright, poisonous green, lying on the floor curled up and empty.

"I really hope whatever shed this skin is dead," John whispered. When Sherlock stepped closer to it and started break it, he hissed: "Eww-what are you doing?!"

"Collecting samples," the Slytherin stated and put a few strips of snake skin into the pocket of his trousers. "Also, I do think I know what the monster in the Chamber is."

"Wait what?"

"Yes. No snake can reach that size, and if you take in everything we know about the other openings of the Chamber in the past, we know the creature kills on sight, or at least petrifies its victims. Now, if you take in account that Salazar Slytherin built this chamber, spoke Parseltongue – snake language - and the emblem of Slytherin House is a snake-" he pointed to his chest, were the silver-and-green patch of Slytherin was sewed to his pullover, "I assume the monster is a basilisk."

"You are… unbelievable," John told him, shaking his head in wonder. "So, a basilisk looks like a giant snake and you die when you look at it?"

"No one has seen a basilisk in a hundred years; it's illegal to create one – it's dark magic. But since that shed skin is from one, it's obvious that they look like that. I don't think we will see one, though."

"Yes, you said that Harry Potter has to have killed it." John looked at skin with one last shudder and then walked past it, Sherlock following. They passed an area where a cave-in seemed to have taken place and they had to climb over some rocks to get further down the tunnel.

"Why do you think Alec was kidnapped? Does his kidnapper plan on making a new basilisk? Maybe he needs Alec as food…" John couldn't help but wonder while they made their way through the tunnel, turning around corners ever so often.

Sherlock remained quiet, and whatever was going on in his head, he didn't share it with John, so the Gryffindor just shrugged and walked on.

They walked for quite a while, but just when John started to wonder if there was ever going to be an end of the tunnel, they turned around a corner and faced a wall with two snakes carved in, their eyes glistening gemstones, probably emeralds. Sherlock remained in the distance a bit, while John slowly stepped closer and examined the wall. It was obviously a passageway, but there was no knob or handle to be found and no lock either.

"How do we open it?" he asked, and watched Sherlock intently, who seemed to be fighting with his own tongue, pulling weird faces and making throaty sounds now and then. Finally, John understood what his friend was doing. "You're trying to speak – what's it called,.. Parseltongue?"

Sherlock didn't bother to answer, but kept making the sounds until he managed a hiss that sounded vaguely like the thing Myrtle had said to the sink.

With a grinding sound, the wall started to move and the entwined stone snakes parted, allowing the wall to fully open and reveal an entrance.

Both boys stood next to each other for a moment in silence, until John cleared his throat. "Whatever or whoever is in there, try not to put yourself into unnecessary danger, okay?"

Sherlock only grinned in excitement and, with a half-way glance to John, said: "I know you're there, nothing is going to happen!" while walking straight into the Chamber of Secrets.

X

They were facing a long, dimly lit chamber with stone pillars entwined with more carved serpents that towered to both sides of them, casting shadows in the greenish light that filled the area. At the very end of the chamber, a monumental statue of a man with a long thin beard and monkeyish features was standing against the wall, and both boys recognized him as Salazar Slytherin instantly, having seen the portraits of the founders of the houses before.

And at the feet of the statue was laying a tiny figure with strawberry blond hair.

While John already rushed forwards, Sherlock followed at a slower pace, taking in the whole chamber and the archways between the pillars. By the time he had reached the two boys, John was already kneeling next to Alec on the floor, checking for his pulse and slapping his cheek, trying to get him to wake up.

The Gryffindor was obviously engrossed with his friend, while Sherlock had time to marvel at the giant skeleton of what used to be the Basilisk of Slytherin, now nothing more than clean, white bones with an impressive skull and even more impressive fangs.

"So you found the entrance?" A voice suddenly whispered and Sherlock looked up in surprise, just as John, who startled visibly. "Well, to be honest I counted on that."

The voice belonged to a hooded figure standing next to the statue, seemingly having appeared out of nowhere. If Sherlock had to take a guess, he'd say the voice belonged to a male person, but due to the whispering, it was hard to tell. Also, the cloak covered the wizard wholly and there was no clue about who he was.

"Who are you? And what did you do to Alec?!" John called out, getting to his feet, his wand pointed at the stranger.

"You stay out of this conversation, mudblood!" The figure hissed. Then he looked at Sherlock again, only indicated by a slight movement of the hood. "I must say, I am not pleased that you brought John along, but now the damage's done already, right?"

Sherlock looked at the man emotionless, only sign of his interest being his intense stare. He slowly walked over to where John was standing. "I take it you plan on using this chamber for its original purpose again? Since you called John a mudblood, you must be a pure-blooded wizard, descending all the way back to Salazar Slytherin?"

"Ah, see, I knew you were clever. Yes, I've indeed started a little… hatchery down here. As for Mr. Woodlight here – it was almost pathetic how easy he was to manipulate. But he turned out to be quite useful with killing the roosters and re-discovering the writing on the walls."

"That's it-" John stated between clenched teeth and then he rapidly fired a Disarming Charm, followed by a Knockback Jinx, impeccably aimed, but nevertheless easily fended off by the other wizard.

Sherlock, on the other hand, focused more on the stranger's words and something occurred to him. "Hatchery? Did you really succeed in breading another basilisk?"

Something like a chuckle was heard from the wizard, and then he replied, still whispering: "I call him Chuck." And with that, the mouth of the statue of Slytherin slowly opened and something tiny made its way out of it.

"Bloody hell, is that a real basilisk?" John called out and Sherlock nodded grimly. "Avoid looking into its eyes!" Both boys cast their eyes to a point somewhere below the creature and within seconds, they both fired a jinx at the snake, but nothing happened and Sherlock mumbled: "It scales protect it, much like dragon scales. We won't get far with magic!"

The basilisk had made it to the ground and now curled up at the stranger's feet. Sherlock risked a glance, avoiding its head, and realized that it was only as long as his forearm, was of dark green colour and had a scarlet plume on its head.

"So what now?" the Slytherin called out. "You kidnapped Alec to lure me down here, you got your basilisk – but you're not going to kill me. What do you want, then?"

The stranger made a disapproving 'tsk'-sound and asked: "Isn't it obvious? I give you the chance to take my side. You're a genius, and with my… abilities – and the basilisk – we could become invincible. Together. You must be so alone all the time, with your brilliant mind and your deductions."

"He's not alone!" John called out, not quite sure where this was leading, but he was certain Sherlock wouldn't fall for that offer. Sherlock was one of the good guys.

The man bristled with anger at the interruption. "You always have to interrupt, right? Why can't you just stay out of this?! I think I have to prove a point here-" he made a hissing sound and before John or Sherlock could react, the basilisk pounced at John like a elastic spring and John felt a tug at his sleeve when Sherlock reached out to pull him out of the way and then something pointy got his shoulder and when he looked down himself, he saw the basilisk dangling from his body, one of his fangs drilled in his shoulder, and it winded around to break free, hissing angrily.

Before John even knew if he should scream or grab the snake or what else, he heard the sound of glass breaking and then something red flashed in Sherlock's fingers before it cut straight through the basilisk, separating its head from the rest of its body.

"NO!" The stranger called, speaking loudly this time, and now Sherlock was sure that he was male, but as quickly as the outburst came, the hooded man caught himself again and hissed: "What did you do?! All the effort put into him- oh well…" He shrugged and suddenly sounded calm again. "I guess you don't see the big picture yet. I'll leave you to it, for now. It's all part of a greater game, anyways." He sighed. "Oh, John, are you not feeling well? Hm… You look a bit sick! Anyways, see you, Sherlock."

John, indeed, had started to feel a bit sick while the stranger was talking and now he slowly felt drowsy, his vision becoming blurred. He couldn't hold himself up for longer and fell to his knees. Sherlock's eyes darted between his friend and the stranger, and with one last shuffle of his hood, the stranger vanished.

"Catch… you… later," Sherlock said quietly and then quickly moved to kneel next to John, while, from far, a high-pitched, sing-song voice called "No you won't!"

John's condition had changed for the worse and he was lying on his back now, gasping for air while his face had turned an unhealthy white, with black veins creeping up from his neck and sweat gathering on his forehead.

"John, can you hear me? How do you feel?" Sherlock asked, checking for a pulse and looking into his friends' dilated pupils.

"How do you think I feel? Like crap," the older boy pressed out and groaned, his hands clenching and un-clenching.

"You have been poisoned by the basilisk – you're lucky he's just a baby, otherwise you would be dead already," Sherlock stated, looking for something in the pocket of his trousers.

"Yeah, I'm a really lucky guy- argh," John replied and then his eyes shut and his face contorted in pain. "Can you get me to the Hospital Wing?"

"No, you're going to die before you get there- now, do me a favour and shut up, yes? I'm trying to save your life."

John would probably have replied, but given the fact he was dying at the moment, he had no problem with doing as requested. His eyes shot open, though, when Sherlock yanked his Gryffindor pullover over his head and then ripped open his button-down shirt beneath, not caring to fumble with the buttons.

Where the basilisk fang had pierced him, the skin was black and veins were going from there to everywhere on John's unnaturally pale chest, the longest reaching up to his neck and some covering the area of his heart.

Sherlock did everything to remain calm and his in years inculcated self control came in handy now, when he pulled off the cork from a small vial with his teeth and then brought the glass container to the puncture, where the fang was still sticking out. He pulled out the small tooth with great carefulness, but John screamed out nevertheless – it was a sound that caused shivers on Sherlock's spine and something he never wanted to hear again. John, who was always so calm when it came to dangerous situations, who was so bright compared to all the dull people and made him feel things like joy and excitement (emotions he usually only felt when experimenting or investigating) and, well, made him feel things _in general_, when he usually was closed up and cut off emotions; John, who was never brought down by anything, was lying on a cold marble floor, screaming in agony. Sherlock, for a moment, thought he himself would go insane from everything on his mind – but then he realized that if John only stopped screaming, stopped being in pain, it would be good again, and everything would be back to normal.

And he dipped the vial, causing the single, shiny drop inside to fall into the open flesh.

John's body bucked up and his screams stopped abruptly, he only wheezed for a moment and then gasped for air as the liquid eliminated the poison in his body and allowed his veins to go back to their original purpose – pumping blood through the Gryffindor. The whole process only took about half a minute, and when the liquid had worked its wonders, John slowly sat up, still panting heavily, but already looking better, face returning to its usual healthy colour. His eyes found Sherlock's.

"How- how did you do that?!"

Sherlock let the small fang clink into the vial and corked it, putting it into his trouser pocket before answering: "Phoenix tears. The only known antidote for basilisk venom."

John looked puzzled. "Where did you get Phoenix tears from?"

"One. One Phoenix tear. Slughorn sometimes holds Potion brewing contests on the weekends, only for Slytherins because the prizes are very high-class. I won one and got to chose between a single phoenix tear and a feather of one. I chose the tear because I didn't know what to do with the feather."

"And you just kept carrying it around ever since then?"

Sherlock coloured a deep scarlet. "I may have forgotten it was in this pair of trousers until before."

"Well, I'm glad you remembered. You… you saved my life," John stated and then, smiling, he leaned in and wrapped his arms around Sherlock, hugging him tightly. "Thank you."

_He smelled of sweat, and the grime from the pipe. He was warm, but his hands were cold. His hair tickled Sherlock's neck at the side and he felt hot breath against nape of his neck. _

The sensation of being hugged surprised Sherlock and he realized he'd never been this close to John before, not in that somehow intimate way, having just saved his life. He raised his arms a bit awkwardly and finally wrapped them around John, too, only for a moment. When he let go, John followed suit and looked down his chest, seemingly only then realizing he was sitting in the Chamber of Secrets half-naked. He quickly reached around for his pullover and put it back on. Sherlock got up and John reached out, letting himself being helped to his feet.

John still felt a bit wobbly, but it was bearable. His eyes fell on Alec on the floor. When he'd checked the boys' pulse earlier, he could still feel it and it looked like he was just out for a while.

"Looks like we're going to have to carry him all the way up again," he said, but Sherlock shook his head.

"If we use a Levitation Charm, the two of us should be able to control his floating."

John acknowledged that plan and picked up his wand from the floor, getting ready. "On three?"

The Slytherin nodded and John counted: "One, two, three – Wingardium Leviosa!"

Alec's body lifted off the ground steadily and floated at the level of John's hip between them, and so they made their way out of the chamber slowly, wands pointed to the sleeping boy in between them. They were halfway back to the pipe up to Myrtle's bathroom, when something occurred to John.

"How did you kill the basilisk? You… you cut him with something, right? I'm sorry, I just can't remember, it's all a bit of a blur…"

"I broke one lense of the Rainbow glass to use the shard." Sherlock reached into his pocket with his free hand and pulled out a broken red fragment of the Rainbow glass.

"You brought the glass with you?" John was astonished, but Sherlock only shrugged. "Well, it's a useful tool, I figured it might come in handy – true, that was not what it was intended for, but it served its purpose nonetheless."

John thought about it for a moment, before he smiled. "You know, I think it maybe did what it was intended for in a way – see, the description of the different lenses said that the red lense is useful in fights. Red is the colour of action, courage and confidence and, as I said, the red lense is supposed to be used in aggressive situations. So maybe you killing a basilisk with it did what it was supposed to do after all."

Sherlock cocked his head. "You know, for not being a genius, you're rather smart sometimes."

"Aren't you charming today?" John replied dryly but then grinned to sign Sherlock he accepted the compliment-of-sorts.

"And you know something else?" Sherlock asked, coming to a halt when they stood in front of the pipe again. "Despite the fact that I know the pipe is not going to be longer, I have the bad feeling that it will feel a lot longer to get back up."

John sighed. "Truer words have never been spoken."

X

"You know, I'm not complaining or anything – but maybe we could for once do something where we don't end up almost dead? Or have to climb up steep pipes?" John noted when they were both sitting on beds in the Hospital wing, Madame Pomfrey working on his shoulder. Where the fang had pierced him, a scar was remaining, and even though the single phoenix tear had been enough to take out the poison, it wasn't enough to heal the flesh.

Sherlock had tried to point out different spells to Madame Pomfrey, but John realized that the nurse was close to kicking the Slytherin out – or sedating him with a quick spell – so he made him shut up and let her do what she thought best. But getting rid of the scar was even beyond her capability.

Alec, who had been bewitched to wait for them down in the Chamber, lay on another bed, fast asleep, and Sherlock changed from staring at him intently to staring at John. Finally, Madame Pomfrey declared she was done and that she wanted to keep John in the wing for the night. The Gryffindor didn't fight her, but when Sherlock turned to leave, he looked unbelievingly.

"You're not seriously gonna let me stay here tonight alone, right?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I'm not sick or injured – why would I stay here?"

"Because I'm here and you're… well, you're in shock – you were in danger tonight, after all," John pointed out, tone insinuating. He liked Sherlock, he wasn't denying that, but sometimes he wished the other boy would have something like a sense of community.

Of course, it didn't work that way; Sherlock looked confused. "I can as well sleep in the dorm, I'm not in shock, I don't need to-"

He was interrupted when they could hear the voice of Mycroft, talking quietly to the nurse in the front. He inquired if Sherlock was ready to be accompanied back to the dorm.

John tried not to snort at the horrified face Sherlock made and when footsteps came closer, the Slytherin hopped into a bed next to John faster than lightning, wrapping a blanket around himself like a cocoon and putting on a suffering face. Just when he was finished, Mycroft pushed aside the curtains that separated John and Sherlock from Alec.

The older Holmes' eyes fell on his younger brother instantly. "Sherlock, what are you doing? Get out of bed and come with me!" Then, his eyes came to rest on John and, like always, John had the feeling he was being tested on something. "How are you feeling, John?"

"Okay, I guess… just a bit exhausted. Thanks for asking."

Mycroft just nodded and then turned back to his brother. "Sherlock?"

The younger Slytherin looked puzzled. "I can't go with you, Mycroft, I'm clearly in shock. See, I even got a blanket." He lifted the hem of the blanket a bit before pulling it tighter again.

The strained sigh from Mycroft didn't help John, who tried his best not to grin at the stunt Sherlock was pulling, but it was clear that Mycroft knew better than to discuss with his younger brother.

"Fine, then you can stay here until tomorrow morning. I hope you will get over your, ahem, shock soon. Have a good night." The last part was directed at John, too, who smiled back innocently, but somehow he knew that Mycroft knew full well that now both, John and Sherlock, were close to bursting out in laughter. With one last nod, he turned and left the wing, while Madame Pomfrey gave them one last reprimanding look and, with a flick of her wand, extinguished the candles and told them to go to sleep.

Sherlock stretched out on the bed and draped the blanket over himself loosely, before John stated: "You're in a shock, huh?"

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."

The Gryffindor rolled his eyes, but grinned into the darkness. "Good night to you, too."

There was no reply, and after a while, John's breath evened out, became deeper and calmer and he turned to one side, facing Sherlock, but his eyes were closed and his face relaxed; and it was only now that Sherlock whispered back "Goodnight", lost in his thoughts and the downs of his mind.


	8. Interlude: Summer Break 2

Of course Sherlock and John were being inquired by Professor McGonagall early the next morning – it was the 1st June - but although they explained the location of the entry to the Chamber of Secrets exactly, no one was able to reproduce the Parsel words to open the entrance again. John had the suspicions that Sherlock would've been able to do so if he wanted to, but maybe it was for the best if the Chamber stayed locked.

All exams had been cancelled due to the disappearance of Alec the day before and although the Fifth and Seventh years had to take their O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s, everyone else was excused, which, together with the recurrence of Alec resulted in a happy crowd of students. (It also helped with Sherlock's reputation a bit – it was partly his fault that Alec had been found and the exams were cancelled – but that didn't last long, seeing as Sherlock was… well, being Sherlock.)

John felt infinitely better after one night in the Hospital Wing and the Phoenix tear, combined with a potion to help his body fight the last remains of the Basilisk poison, but his left shoulder nevertheless sported a scar now, pink and formed like a blossom. He didn't mind too much, though – at least he was still alive.

After McGonagall left them, Sherlock couldn't hold back his eagerness any longer and went over to Alec's bed. The small boy had been talking to some teachers, too, but it was only now that John and Sherlock got the chance to hear his story without being questioned themselves.

John sensed Sherlock was going to jump straight to the important questions, so he quickly gestured for his friend to wait a moment and instead asked Alec: "Hey – how are you feeling?"

The Gryffindor gave them a small smile. "Alright, I guess. I still have a headache, but I'm not hurt otherwise – you…" his voice gave out for a moment and when he managed to speak again, his eyes glistened a bit "You two saved my life – I… I'm so sorry, I heard you talking and John, you nearly got killed and-"

"Yes, it was dangerous, but it's over now," Sherlock interrupted him, maybe the slightest bit annoyed at all the incoherent blabber, but John noticed how his friend actually tried to be at least a tiny bit soothing – if only so Alec calmed down enough to be questioned.

Surprisingly enough, Alec made wide eyes at Sherlock's words and actually tried to calm down, taking a few deep breaths and smiling watery. It was obvious that he was still trying to control his emotions and stop them from taking over again, but he tried his best.

"Do you remember how you got down there or who attacked you?"

"Actually I- I have notes," Alec told them, smiling a bit unsure and reaching out for a pile of crumbled parchment on the nightstand next to him, where the contents of his bag and trousers where piled.

"You made notes about who attacked you? How?" John was more than confused and Alec gave him a small smile before his eyes wandered back to Sherlock.

"I noticed that I couldn't remember what I did when I wanted to come to the Hospital Wing after the game where John got hit off his broomstick – I ended up in bed, but without any memory of actually making it to the Hospital Wing. My sister, she's good at putting people into a trance, so I asked her to do that for me to remember what happened, and I couldn't remember much – what I could remember was that I passed the first-floor corridor and saw a tall figure bent over the body of Molly Hooper, with the writing at the wall – he turned to me and then I blacked out – not even the trance could help me remember, I had a terrible headache afterwards…" Alec trailed off, obviously caught in the memory, but when he noticed Sherlock's impatient look, he quickly continued. "After that, I wrote down what I did everyday and there always were gaps when something related to the Chamber happened, although I never could remember the guy with the hood again… I even-" he looked sick now, "I think I even killed the roosters."

John patted his back soothingly while he gave Sherlock a pointed look to give Alec a minute. Then he realized something himself. "I even saw you after that, remember? It was after the Hufflepuff match – you came out of the bathroom and when I went in, I saw something in the sink… I'm afraid that was blood…"

At that, Alec paled even more, if that was possible, but at least he didn't look like he had to puke.

"So, we know that you interrupted the person in the hood during the petrification of the first victim, he or she – pretty sure it's a he, though – cast some memory loss spell over you and from then on abused you to do the dirty work, until he finally kidnapped you to lure me down to the Chamber," Sherlock summarized, already thinking loudly – John knew that helped the Slytherin to sort his thoughts.

Sherlock looked up suddenly, and his pale eyes drilled themselves into Alec's watery blues. "Think hard – can you remember anything of your kidnapper? Any signs indicating which House he belongs to? Any signs of his age? Is he even a student? How old is he?"

"I, uhm, I think it was a male, yes, and I think he's about… 5ft 10 tall? He was around my father's height, I suppose. But other than that – I'm sorry, I don't know… I don't think he was a student, though. I mean, he looked rather… grown up…"

"It's safe to say that the person you described was the person we encountered down in the Chamber and-"

Sherlock kept droning on, while John turned to Alec and smiled at him encouragingly. "You did a great job, thank you." Sherlock wasn't going to say it, so at least one of them had to be decent, after all.

"You know, I'm really sorry for what that guy did to you…" Alec suddenly grinned. "But at least we don't have exams this year!" And John just laughed, simply because Alec just saw the good in everything. Maybe the world needed more people like him.

X

The last three weeks of June were spent with funny classes, since even the teachers were relieved that the whole Chamber-of-Secrets-horror was over and the lessons were spent with teaching the students funny, easy spells and in Potions, Slughorn let them create something he wouldn't tell them the name of, but that turned out to be ice cream that coloured their tongues in different colours.

The warm weather tempted the students to sit down by the lake and the hours after classes were spent playing ball games (courtesy of the Muggle-born students who quickly taught them to the others) and swimming in the lake – the water was a bit fresh, but that didn't stop anyone.

Sherlock was really reluctant to go out and sit with John and his friends in the beginning – he seemed to be more fond of colder weather and the dungeons – but after John kept bugging him for hours, he grumpily sat down under a tree with a book and turned from reading it to watching the others fool around in the lake.

John was obviously tanning quite easily and after getting over a certain reluctance of actually walking around in just his swimming trunks, exposing the pink scar on his chest, his skin adapted a golden shimmer that actually made the scar almost invisible if you didn't know where to look for it. He and Greg were the first ones to actually swim in the lake that year – obviously not everyone was sure whether it was warm enough already – but after they made the first step, the Hogwarts bathing season was opened.

Of course they nagged Sherlock to go into the lake, too, after they had successfully managed to lure him outside, but he only gave them disapproving looks and settled back down against his tree. In an afterthought, John wondered how the self-proclaimed detective couldn't have seen it coming, but in his reluctance to go swimming, he only made himself a more desirable target and it didn't took long for Greg and John to plot against him.

At one of the last days before the Hogwarts express would take them back home for the summer holidays, John and Greg very casually sat down next to Sherlock after a good hour in the lake, playing some form of water polo with some Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors, and John made sure to sit between Sherlock's bag (that contained his wand) and the Slytherin himself. Sherlock didn't realize what was about to happen – Greg and John had spent hours acting as casual as possible - until it was too late and two pairs of wet arms closed around his upper body and legs.

He realized in a split second what was about to go on and although he didn't scream – that was beneath him – he hissed and struggled against the death grip the two Gryffindors had around him. It was in vain, though, and after they'd waded into the lake a good part, they grinned and simply dumped the cursing Slytherin.

He came up spitting water after a few seconds, curls plastered to his head and death glares shooting to the cackling Gryffindors and before they could react, he held out his hand and his wand came flying straight into it – John had never seen someone doing magic without voicing it and without holding their wand – but his wonderment was quickly ended when Sherlock, using a Knockback Jinx, simply drowned Greg and John under a giant wave of water before wading out and shaking his head like a wet dog, droplets of water cascading from his soaked frame.

They didn't try to get him into the lake after that anymore, but John knew Sherlock wasn't too angry with him after he said he was sorry after supper that evening and Sherlock simply rolled his eyes. True, the Slytherin glared at him for a few days, but they both knew there was no real anger behind that.

X

At the 19th June, the Hogwarts Express took off to take the students back to their families and left Hogwarts behind for another summer.

Sherlock, when he was bored, sometime thought of all the things John made him do with a grumble, cursing at the Gryffindor who kept him from experimenting, who made him sit outside, who had even tossed him into the bloody lake in front of the half school – but something inside Sherlock prevented him from simply cutting John off, from just leaving him behind. His brain then helpfully provided him with the horrible moments in the Chamber of Secret, where strong, steady John Watson had been turned into a screaming mess on the floor and Sherlock's world had threatened to fall apart.

Sitting in the compartment, John and the rest of his dorm chatting about one thing or the other, Sherlock once again lived through the evening in the Chamber – it wasn't like he hadn't tried to erase all the emotional stained parts of the memory, hell, he really tried to delete everything that wasn't important for the case, but the sick tone of John's skin, the boy's cries and the wide eyes, turned towards the ceiling were burnt into his brain, sitting deep inside his mind palace, haunting him whenever he thought of John.

For a while, he tried busying himself with the mysterious stranger – 5ft 10 tall, male, experienced wizard, borderline genius, even – and no clue to whoever he was. Sherlock suspected that he was behind the squib from their first year, too – a non-magical person needed the help of an extraordinary wizard to set up this trap for Sherlock, and the words had been the same. _Everything was part of a greater game. The Great Game._

Well, Sherlock was not patient, but he could wait if he had to – everyone, no matter how smart they were, made mistakes sooner or later, and when the time came, Sherlock would be ready. He'd made his own mistake already, dragging John into this, but now the damage was done and he had come out stronger. True, the images haunted him, but his mind was far greater than anyone else's, so he surely would be able to deal with it.

He didn't care much about the others – Moriarty had been a victim because he was inhabiting the same room as Sherlock, and Alec had been unlucky, walking in on the mysterious enemy while he was at work – but John, John choose to accompany Sherlock and made a target of himself willingly.

_Caring is not an advantage._

Mycroft had said it, Sherlock knew it was true, and so he tried not to, willed his mind into doing so – but just as unruly as Sherlock's personality was, his mind was, too, and it didn't always do what he wanted it to – hence the nightmares of John dying from the Basilisk fang over and over again.

"Sherlock?"

A soft, warm voice startled him and he blinked, making his eyes actually _see_, despite having stayed open all the time. They were at King's Cross, he'd been lost in thoughts for hours, and the others were just leaving, calling back last goodbyes at John and Sherlock. The former currently looked down at his friend with mild amusement.

"Are you with us again?" John chuckled.

"I was thinking."

"I could see that. Anything interesting come up?"

Sherlock got up, pulling his coat from the racks. "I don't want you to die." It was a simple statement.

"Well, that's relieving to hear," John joked and grinned, but then got serious. "Look, if this is still about the Chamber – none of that was your fault – if anything, you're the one who saved me. Try not to let it get you down too much, yes? That brain of yours should better think of other things."

Sherlock didn't know what to reply to that, so he simply stayed silent, only nodded once to show John he'd understood.

"So, can I write you letters over the holidays or is it a bad thing to do?" John then asked and Sherlock swallowed a smile. He would definitely allow letters this time – but they wouldn't be necessary if everything went according to plan. Instead of answering, he simply grabbed his trunk, whistled for Auriga and pushed past a confused John, only calling back on his way through the train: "Expect to hear from me very soon!"

X

Exactly one week after their return from Hogwarts, the telephone rang at the Watson's house. That itself was not too unusual, but John quickly got up to get it, hoping it would actually be for him. His parents were both at work and he and Harry had settled down on the sofa for the day, since the weather was awful outside. He hoped it would be Greg, with whom he had exchanged letters already about meeting up again, but he definitely wasn't prepared for what was about to happen. He picked up the phone – no number he recognized – and answered.

"Hello?"

"AHOY!"

John nearly dropped the telephone when a male voice shouted into his ear and he juggled the telephone around a bit before grasping it again and holding it – in a somewhat safe distance – to his ear again.

"… Who's there?"

"OH GOOD THIS IS ACTUALLY WORKING!" the voice yelled and suddenly John realized who exactly was abusing his ear-drum.

"Sherlock?!"

"OF COURSE. USING THIS TELEPHONE IS REALLY EXHAUSTING – WHY DO MUGGLES DO IT?!"

"Sherlock – Sherlock, stop shouting!" John all but yelled back and for a moment, he only heard silence at breathing. "Sherlock?"

"Well this explains a lot." Sherlock sounded astonished, and John could only imagine how he looked a bit dumbstruck but tried to smooth it over.

"From where are you calling? I thought wizards don't have telephones? And how did you even get my number?!" John had so many questions, but these seemed to be the most important ones.

"Easy, I sneaked out off the house, watched some Muggles use the telephone booth, pick-pocketed them for Muggle money and called you. That is, I called every Watson in this telephone book that his lying in the booth – you're the fourth try. I'm glad it worked, though, my throat started to hurt."

When he heard that, John just cracked up. He couldn't help himself, the vivid image in his mind of Sherlock yelling inside a telephone booth was just too much for him. Between gasps, he pressed out: "You… you yelled at three different people on the phone?" before doubling over again, not able to stop. Harry came from the living room and raised an eyebrow questioningly but he couldn't communicate with her, he was too busy laughing.

"How was I supposed to know how Muggle communication worked?" John could actually hear the pout in Sherlock's voice and tried to calm down, knowing that his friend didn't take it too well if someone laughed at him too long for doing something wrong.

"Did you see the others yell at the speaker?" John asked teasingly. Harry still stared at him as if he was crazy.

A somehow grumpy "No" was the answer and John couldn't hold back Sherlock's favourite sentence, and so he quoted: "You see, but you don't observe, then!"

"Shut up, John, I'm running out of Muggle money," Sherlock instantly fired back, obviously not handling it too well being beaten by his own quote. "Do you have a fireplace?"

John decided to let go of the topic, and, a bit confused, said: "Yes, why?"

"Good. Be prepared at the 1st July. I'll be-"

And the connection was ended. John could only stare at the telephone in his hands for a moment before hanging up, too, not sure what he was supposed to do now.

"Who was that?" Harry asked, eyeing the telephone warily.

"Uhm… Sherlock. He used the telephone for the first time and he thought you had to yell." John looked uneasy and already expected Harriet's mood to drop, as usual when he talked about wizards or the wizarding world in general – and the fact that wizards didn't use telephones was something Harry had found hilarious when she found out about it. She'd teased John for weeks with that knowledge. However, she seemed to have one of her better days and just shook her head before asking: "Are you coming? We still need to finish this episode of Doctor Who."

"Yes, sure."

And without worrying much about it anymore, John followed his sister back into the living room where they curled up on the couch again, resuming their TV-day. He still wondered what exactly would happen at the 1st July, but over the curse of the week, the thought disappeared into the back of his mind.

X

For it being the summer holidays, the weather was truly shitty and John's and Harry's TV day had extended itself to a TV week. Their parents didn't mind since Harry had finished school this summer (with fairly acceptable grades) and would start working at a local café in September. And so the siblings were once again curled up on the sofa, now through with the first series of Doctor Who and currently halfway into the second series – John didn't watch much television, but it still was something he missed sometimes – and especially now, when it was raining cats and dogs for over a week now, there wasn't much else to do. Also, it was nice spending time with Harry when she was in a good mood.

It was about 11 o'clock in the morning and Harry had just gotten up – she'd been to another party the night before and had only come home in the early morning hours – and John just went to the kitchen to get both of them a cuppa tea (and some aspirin) while discussing the threat of the Cybermen with her, when he heard a weird sound coming from the living room and the voice of Harry died down.

"Harry?"

There was no reply, but the rumbling sound continued and he quickly sat down the two mugs with tea before hurrying into the living room. The fireplace that was unlit – it was July, after all, despite the heavy rain – was smoking a bit and Harry watched it with narrowed eyes, leaning forward on the sofa a bit.

Now, dust and ashes came trickling from the arch of the fireplace and John and Harry exchanged a look. "Do you think it's some sort of animal?"

"I'm not sure-" Harry eyed it for a moment longer and then determinedly got up and grabbed the poker from the wall, lifting it over her head when the small puffs of ash got more and more.

And then, suddenly, and with a bright green flash, a figure appeared in their fireplace, toppling out in a cloud of ashes and dust and Harry let out a scream and jumped closer, probably to hit the figure on the head with her poker, but John's eyes had widened when he saw what – or better, who - had appeared in their fireplace and yelled: "NO HARRY!" before reaching out and grabbing the arm of the person, quickly yanking him away, right when Harry brought down the poker and hit the stone wall of the fireplace instead.

The look on Sherlock's face – of course it was him – was priceless and he turned from staring unbelievingly at Harry to staring at John. "Is that how Muggles usually greet each other?"

"Oi, what are you calling me?!" Harry asked, one hand on her hip and the other still curled around the poker.

"A Muggle, a non-magic-"

"Harry, this is Sherlock – Sherlock, that's my sister Harry," John interrupted quickly and then gave his sister a pointed look. "Put down the poker."

The older Watson sibling raised an eyebrow, but slowly lowered the poker and leaned it against the wall again. "That's Sherlock? The pirate boy from the train?"

Sherlock's cheeks tinted the faintest bit red and John had to hold back laughter at his sister's words.

"I don't plan to become a pirate anymore," Sherlock dismissed Harry indignantly and lifted his head a bit higher, sticking up his nose and trying to brush some ash off his coat.

Remembering the phone call, John raised an eyebrow. "'Ahoy', though?"

Sherlock turned to face him, sighing in annoyance. "I did my research – Muggle Alexander Graham Bell originally suggested this to be adopted as the standard greeting when answering the telephone."

"That was 1870something," John chuckled and he saw that although Sherlock tried not to do it, a small pout was forming on the Slytherin's face.

"Uhm excuse me-" Harry interrupted, standing next to the boys awkwardly, "but – what the hell is he doing here and why did he come out of our fireplace?!"

"Yes – actually, that's some good questions…" John looked at his friend questioningly.

"Don't be so dull, John – I'm here to visit you, obviously. You could've deduced that by the bag I'm carrying with me. And while you never used it before, you know about floo powder."

"You're here to… visit me?" Blame it on two weeks in Sherlock's absence, the fact that he had holidays and it was morning, but John found it a bit hard to follow his friend's logic. Had they talked about visiting each other?!

"Oh wait, if this turns into a sappy reunion story, I'll go back to bed – tell me when mum and dad get home, I don't want to miss the scene then," Harry suddenly stated, face hard.

"We can just go to my room and you can stay here-" John offered, but he knew the hard expression on his sister's face – she was shutting herself off again.

"Nah, thanks, I don't need to hear about magic more than necessary." And she just left, rushing past Sherlock and her younger brother and banging the door to her room shut.

"Right…" John's voice trailed off, but then he remember Sherlock still standing in the middle of their living room and he quickly gestured for him to sit down before he retreated to the kitchen and got his and Harry's abandoned tea.

"You do realize that your sister is on the verge of becoming an alcoholic?" Sherlock told him and reached out for his mug, eyes trained on the door through which Harry had left.

John knew his sister drank too much alcohol and that she stayed out for way too long in the nights (and not only weekends) but there had never been a big conversation about it apart from the fights between her and their parents now and then. Hearing it from Sherlock now was a really hard thing – especially since the Slytherin was right almost always.

"Yes, Sherlock. And I'd appreciate if you did not talk about that with anyone else but me, alright? Just don't mention it."

For a moment, the taller boy stared at him, face unreadable as always, but then he lowered his head. "Sure."

"When did we decide you came visiting me, by the way?" John asked then, mood lightening up noticeable.

"You invited me here," Sherlock stated as if that was obvious.

John searched his brain for when he had said such a thing and then, finally, he realized what Sherlock was talking about. "That was _last year_!" He giggled.

"Well, I didn't think there was a date of expiry on that invitation." Sherlock leaned back on the sofa, his coat now folded next to him, wearing a smug expression.

"There wasn't – I mean, some sort of notice would've been great but- oh it's awesome that you're here!" John was extremely giddy. "Mum's going to go bananas but only because she isn't prepared… Oh, hey, how long did you plan on staying?"

"My parents will be gone for three weeks, so that's my timeframe."

"Wait what?!" John didn't really get it.

Sherlock sighed exasperated, as if it was a crime of John not to catch the whole story with all background information like Sherlock usually did with one look. He nevertheless explained it, though. "My parents are gone to visit my extended family, and I was to stay at the manor with Mycroft. After he went to work today, I connected your fireplace to the Floo Network temporarily and came here. All I need to do is get back to the Manor before my parents get back home."

"You ran from home?!"

The Slytherin waved him off. "It's just Mycroft – and knowing him, he will come and look for me soon enough. I don't intend to leave with him, though, and he won't make me in front of you and your family."

John shook his head. "You're insane."

"I'm not," Sherlock simply replied and then picked up the remote for the TV interestedly. "Now that we're done with the formalities, you need to tell me everything about Muggle things." He pushed a button and the frozen screen came back to life, playing the Doctor Who episode John and Harriet meant to watch earlier.

John simply chuckled at the irony of it – it was _The Girl in the Fireplace_.

X

As predicted, John's parents went crazy when John greeted them, telling them that Sherlock popped out of the fireplace that morning and was going to stay with them for three weeks, as soon as they entered the house.

The thought that someone travelled via fireplace was odd enough and the fact that Sherlock had successfully managed to turn on and off every single electronically device in the house (and destroying half of them) and was currently busy with the blender, trying to test out the machine's limits by putting a wooden spoon inside, didn't help the strange feeling the Watson's had when John told them the news.

Before either of them could say something, though, the doorbell rang and John hurried to open it in order not to stress his parents further. However, his eyes nearly popped out of their sockets when he found out who was waiting to be allowed inside.

Sherlock poked his head out from the kitchen, a clear look of disgust on his face, which was being mirrored by his older brother who was waiting in the threshold, wearing a three-piece suit (at least no cloak) and carrying a sleek black umbrella.

John briefly wondered if the vampire legends worked on Mycroft too – as long as you didn't invite him, he wouldn't be able to get in – but one look with raised eyebrows from both Holmes brothers who seemed to be reading his mind again, quickly rid him of that thought and, shaking his head, he stepped aside. "Hi Mycroft. Uh – come in, I guess…"

"Thank you, John," the older Holmes replied and stepped over the threshold (John might have taken a deep breath involuntarily) before smiling at John's parents who looked at the newcomer with careful interest. Mycroft was already in full Head-Boy-Charms-mode and had extended his hand, shaking both of John's perplex parents and introducing himself.

"Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's older brother."

"You're not going to stay here, too, right?" John's father asked before anyone could stop him, eyeing Mycroft suspiciously. John knew his father didn't like 'penguins', how he called them – people in suits, working in posh jobs. He was a police officer, he loved going outside, getting dirty, working with his hands, and Mycroft was the exact opposite of everything he liked. Nevertheless, John's face coloured a deep scarlet at that comment, while Sherlock looked like he wanted to snort but remembered that one Sherlock Holmes didn't snort (in public). Mycroft's smile was a bit strained now, but only for Sherlock's and John's eyes.

"No, Mr. Watson, I can assure you that is not going to happen. And if you're opposed to it, it won't happen with Sherlock, either. Upon my discovery of his disappearance, I came as fast as my work allowed it and I will gladly take him home with me if-"

It was only now that Mary Watson seemed to recover from having two Holmes's in her house and smiled, interrupting Mycroft. "Oh no, no, Sherlock can definitely stay here – we don't mind and John already invited him last year and we were really sorry when he couldn't make it. Having him over is no problem, not at all! You have to excuse my husband, though – sometimes, he can be a bit… blunt." She put her arm over her husband's soothingly.

"I see – it runs in the family, I suppose," Mycroft replied, his eyes resting on John who squirmed a bit. "Well, if you are sure you're willing to have my brother here, I will leave you to it, of course. Now, if you'll excuse me – I'm afraid I have to leave again." He looked at his brother. "I will pick you up for Side-Along Apparition at the end of your stay – connecting households to the Floo Network is hardly legal, as you surely must know."

Sherlock looked unfazed, as if Mycroft was talking to someone else who had appeared in the Watson's fireplace that morning, and upon hearing a faint crack coming from the kitchen and both, Sherlock's and John's worried glances back in there, he sighed and added, addressing John's father: "Of course I will compensate for anything Sherlock destroys."

John's mum tried to protest already, but this time, his dad gestured for her to stay quiet and accepted the offer swiftly, with one last measuring look at the older Holmes brother.

Then, Mycroft wished them a good evening and, exchanging one last look with his brother, left, closed the door behind himself and disapparated.

For a short time, no one said a thing until finally, John's dad cleared his throat and walked past Sherlock to get a drink. Bottle in his hands, he looked back over his shoulder, locked eyes with Sherlock and said: "Some weird brother you got there."

And Sherlock dropped his collected, calm façade and rolled his eyes. "That is true."

John was more than surprised when it turned out that his father took a great liking to Sherlock – John and his mum supposed their combined antipathy regarding suit-wearing 'penguins' and the fact that they both enjoyed a good adventure rather than just sitting around gave them a common ground. That evening, Harry had come from her room, clearly hoping to witness a scene regarding Sherlock's stay, but had been disappointed when she found Sherlock and her dad absorbed in a conversation about a crime that had happened a few days prior and, with some gentle nudging of John, how their dad showed Sherlock the notes on the case. The Slytherin had deduced everything there was to know about the murderer within seconds, leaving John's parents astonished.

From Sherlock's arrival on, the days went infinitely more pleasant for John – he had been right when he'd thought about how weird it would be having sleepovers with Sherlock, seeing as the boy rarely slept, and when he did, he only slept for a few hours. Also, he spent quite a lot time in the bathroom, at least compared to John, Harriet and their mum – Sherlock wasn't vain, but it was only now that John realized how much effort the younger boy put into his appearance.

Mary Watson tried to talk to their guest about his family from time to time, but he never went into much detail, even seemed to dread just thinking about it, and rather spent his time with John, running around outside, collecting samples of basically everything and blending it (his newfound love for the blender was a bit unsettling, really) and tried to figure out how the Muggle world worked.

"It's a bit weird to think they don't have electricity," John's father said at one point, when he was in the living room with his wife. "Just imagine how they live – he doesn't look run-down and his family is rich, from what I gathered, but it all seems a bit medieval to me."

"John never complains, though, so I suppose they have other ways to cope. Magic, obviously," Mary had encountered. "I'm more concerned about the medical system – didn't you notice Sherlock is a bit… strange?"

"When I took the boys to work with me yesterday, he made my whole team look like idiots," Mr. Watson stated, still torn between being grumpy about it and feeling wonderment. "He could tell Jenny is cheating on her husband – I mean, everyone knows about it, but he told me how he did it – something about wrinkles in clothes and bruised knees and scents – and when I didn't look for a minute, he and John were standing over the file of a burglary in the neighbourhood and he could tell just from the photographs of the inside of the house that the money and jewelry was probably buried in the backyard and that it was an insurance fraud. Obviously, he doesn't know about insurances of… 'Muggles', he calls us, but he figured out how insurance worked and that the burglary was just staged."

Mary shook her head. "That's not what I mean – I mean, true, that is pretty spectacular, but… I bet Jenny was pretty angry when he announced that, right?"

Her husband nodded, eyes narrowed.

"And did you see him react to that in any way?"

"No, not really. He just looked... indifferent? The look he normally wears, you know?"

Mary nodded, it was just as she'd thought. "He doesn't know how to react in social interaction, he can't make the connection between his words and the emotions they might cause. I've seen kids like him, at work." She fell silent for a moment. "John still wants to become a doctor – remember how he first said that when he was five or six? He still wants that. I think he wants to be a general practitioner, but a few days ago, he asked me for a book about autism spectrum disorders. He's only turning fourteen this year, but he's already so clever…"

She smiled proudly and John's dad nodded, too. John was a good kid and Sherlock was brilliant. And maybe, with John's help, Sherlock would become _good_, too.


	9. Third Year - Part I

When John stepped through the brick wall of Platform 9 ¾ something was off. At first, he couldn't put his fingers on what was bothering him, but then he realized that the usual noise coming from hundreds of families saying goodbye was somehow muffled today, and everyone seemed to be nervous and flinching.

Still bewildered, he said goodbye to his mother and climbed the train, making his way down the aisle to find Sherlock – as predicted, the other boy already had claimed a compartment and looked up when John entered, grinning.

Despite having seen each other only three weeks ago, both boys were glad to be reunited again, simply because keeping in contact was hindered by the precautions Sherlock had to take in order to not expose himself to his relatives (John still had no clue why they had to be so careful, and Sherlock didn't plan on telling him if it wasn't necessary) – no member of the extended family had stayed with the Holmes' this summer, but there were always unannounced visitors to consider, and so staying in contact had once again been a thoughtful act.

Sometimes, Sherlock had tried to make John test out some of his theories, using the Muggle technology, but John had finally managed to make him stop when Sherlock had requested he put newt eyes in the blender and sent the result to him so he could try out if blended newt eyes served a better purpose in brewing potions than the whole newt eyes did.

After putting his trunk away, John sat down and petted Auriga, who was by now almost reaching up to his knee, resulting in the cat rubbing up against his legs contently. "Hey, why is everyone so… quiet out there?" John then asked, looking at his friend questioningly.

"Most likely due to the escape of Fenrir Greyback from Azkaban," Sherlock explained lightly but didn't seem to be interested to go into more detail, ignoring John's confusion. However, before the Gryffindor could try to get more information out of Sherlock, Greg and Zack appeared in the door and fell into seats next to John, greeting him excitedly before Zack asked: "Were you talking about Greyback? That's so exciting – how do you think he did it?!"

"I have this theory-" Sherlock started, turning his head slowly towards the group, but they were once again interrupted when Mike and, finally, Alec, entered, too and the whole excitement and greeting started again.

"Oh great, everyone is saying hello to each other," Sherlock stated miserably and John simply shook his head, smiling, before returning to exchanging small summaries of their respective summers with the others. Finally, Zack didn't seem to be able to hold back anymore and asked again: "What do you think about Greyback's escape?"

Mike made a thoughtful face and Alec paled a bit, mumbling something about "Terrible… dangerous…" while Greg and John exchanged confused glances.

"Ok guys, would someone please tell me what is going on? Seriously, who's Greyback and what did he do?" At that, Mike, Zack and Alec turned to stare at John disbelievingly, while Sherlock, as always, looked indifferent, only maybe slightly bothered by John's apparent lack of knowledge.

"He's only like maybe the most famous prisoner of Azkaban ever since Sirius Black," Zack told John sarcastically. "But hey, no big deal."

Greg gave John a sympathetic smile. "Don't worry mate, I don't know what's going on either."

Mike seemed to take pity on the two Muggle-borns and told them: "Fenrir Greyback is a werewolf, and a really evil one, too. He was imprisoned after the Second Wizarding War and sent to Azkaban, the single most secure prison in all of Great Britain."

"Well, it can't be that secure if Greyback managed to break out, right?" John stated drily and earned a smirk from Sherlock. "Besides, why isn't it all over the news? I thought the Ministry of Magic is working together closely with the Muggle government?"

"As Mike said, Greyback is a werewolf, and they usually look like normal humans, but Greyback doesn't. He always looks kind of wolvish, and what are the wizards supposed to tell the Muggle police? That a half-wolf-half-man guy is on the run? It was in the wizard news, all over the Daily Prophet, but not in the Muggle news," Zack explained swiftly.

"But if werewolves look human when there's no full moon, why does he look, uhm, 'wolvish'?" Greg asked, still confused.

"Lycanthropy is an illness; the infection is spread by saliva-blood contact. Now, most infected fight this sickness, but Greyback seems to have embraced it. He accepts the body changes that allow him to become superior and over the curse of time, his body has changed." Sherlock leaned back in his seat.

All the third years knew about werewolves by now was that the infected person lived like a normal being most of the time and only changed into the deadly monster once a month, but even without more knowledge, John understood where this was leading. "You mean he actually enjoys being a monster and killing people."

"Well, they didn't imprison him for playing 'fetch'."

"Apparently he's taken a liking of human flesh, especially children," Zack whispered, raising an eyebrow. "That's why everyone is scared for Hogwarts – where do you get more children in one place than in the biggest wizarding school of Great Britain?"

"But Hogwarts is protected!" Alec interrupted, looking annoyed. John wasn't sure, but the younger boy seemed to be a bit scared, but tried to smooth it over.

"Sirius Black managed to get in years ago, and if Greyback managed to get out of Azkaban, he can get into Hogwarts too," Zack argued back.

Before the situation could escalate, John decided to ask another question. "Why is it so hard to get out of Azkaban, though?"

"For one, it's located in the middle of the North Sea, on an island, with nothing but water around it for miles. Then there's spells and stuff to keep people away and the prisoners inside. And then there's Dementors, of course." Zack shuddered but kept talking when he saw that Alec wanted to protest. "I know, I know – the Ministry of Magic has sent the Dementors away after the Second Wizarding War, because they were untrustworthy or something, but a few have remained on the surrounding area of Azkaban, just to prevent the prisoners from escaping from the island if they manage to get out of their cells."

"A Dementor is a non-being, a Dark creature that feeds of happiness and causes depression. In rare cases, they can even eat one's soul, leaving the person as an empty shell, alike to a comatose patient in hospital," Sherlock explained rapidly, having seen John's face and known what question was about to come up.

"Thanks," the Gryffindor told him with a smile. Zack clapped his hands excitedly. "So, now that everyone knows what's going on – back to my original question: how do you think he did it?!"

"Maybe he overpowered his guards and then conjured up a boat to get back to the shore?" Mike suggested, but Greg shook his head. John noticed the mixed look of amusement and superiority on Sherlock's face – obviously, the Slytherin had an idea of how it had happened or maybe even knew it (John wouldn't wonder if he actually did) – but for now, Sherlock seemed to be interested by the theories they were spinning.

"I don't think they let him keep a wand in there, and even if he overpowered his guards and snatched one – there has to be a large number of guards; they would've stopped him easily. Also, how did he get past the Dementors?" Greg cocked his head, looking around, but no one seemed to be able to come up with an answer for that.

"How about apparition-" John suggested finally, but when Sherlock actually groaned and sent him a nasty look, he quickly raised his hands in defeat. "Whoa whoa okay, I'm wrong!" He put on his best sorry-face until Sherlock stopped glaring at him. "So, since you're obviously wiser than we are," John mused then, "care to tell us what _really_ happened?"

Sherlock huffed. "Don't be absurd, John, I can't tell if that is what really happened without having been on location-"

"We're so not going to Azkaban!" John decided to make sure – Sherlock couldn't really think of that. _Right?_ John decided he would not take a risk.

"-but the most logical explanation would be that his infection provided him with some sort of advantage compared to the other prisoners. Now, we can assume that he was strong enough to overpower his guards, yes, and make it into the sea – apparition would still not be able because of the spells surrounding the prison for miles, but he would have needed some way to fight off the Dementors." The Slytherin looked around, as if to make sure everyone was still listening. "The most efficient way of fighting Dementors is the Patronus Charm, but it is proven that only wizards of 'pure heart' are able to create one and I think it is safe to say that Fenrir Greyback lacks such a quality. Thus, he can't have used any spells to keep the Dementors away. Now, if we take a look at the other known escapee, Sirius Black, there is only one question: what do those two have in common? They were wandless, heavily guarded, and one was a werewolf. It is known that Sirius Black had no such illness, so look at the symptoms – Greyback is half-animal, or even full-animal when the full moon appears. The only logical conclusion to that is that Black was able to become an animal, too, and _that_ seems to be the advantage those two have in common and that allowed them to break out from Azkaban, somehow shielding them from the Dementors!"

Sherlock drew in a deep breath and noticed satisfied how everyone seemed to be completely drawn into his explanations.

"That. Is. Incredible." John was in awe and didn't even hide it – Sherlock's brain never ceased to amaze John, but after something like that, it made him marvel even more. And even though the Slytherin didn't show it, he was very proud of himself once again.

X

Like every year, they met up outside the Great Hall after the first breakfast – not that Sherlock had eaten anything – to compare their new schedules. Over the summer, all Third Years had to choose from elective courses and Sherlock, upon discovering the possibilities Muggle technology offered, had immediately taken Muggle Studies. He wasn't too interested in the way a Muggle lived his dull everyday life, but if he wanted to work in the society as some sort of detective later, he had to understand how it worked. Also, he secretly hoped that he would be able to copy off John's homework. The Gryffindor had taken Muggle Studies, too, just as Greg and Mike – not because they needed to, but because they figured it would be easy to get good grades there.

John had also decided on Care of Magical Creatures, but despite loving a good adventure, Sherlock saw no real point in feeding lettuce to Flobberworms or doing other things with all sorts of magical creatures in the mud. Flobberworms were useful to produce mucus which was needed for Wiggenweld Potions, but other than that, they were boring and so was the care of them - or anything else, for that matter.

More interesting and definitely of more use was Ancient Runes, taught by a Professor named Babbling, and Arithmancy, taught by Professor Vector – subjects that were really useful and held the possibility of coming in handy, whilst hocus-pocus like Divination was simply offending, at least in Sherlock's opinion. First of all, only people who had the Inner Eye could actually make good prophecies and even if Divination was something one could simply learn, there would have been no need for people like Sherlock (or the police, if you looked at it in general) because crimes would be solved simply by telling who the murderer would be before it even happened.

Upon their first Muggle Studies class, Professor Smith pointed out that Sherlock was the first Slytherin to take this class, aside from Mycroft before he'd finished school last year, and John spent a majority of the lesson to make Sherlock calm down while the Slytherin seethed about his brother, a comparison to him or, well, Mycroft's existence in general.

To be honest, even John was a bit relieved that Mycroft wasn't returning to Hogwarts this year, after having succeeded in his N.E.W.T.s and taken on a job at the Ministry of Magic, but the Gryffindor was wrong if he had been thinking Mycroft stopped looking out for his brother.

Sherlock hadn't noticed John's absence in Friday's Defence Against the Dark Arts class until he had to repeat his request for a quill for the 17th time and looked up, only to find John not being there anymore. He then tried to remember when he'd seen the Gryffindor last and realized that he had had to disappear somewhere on the way to the classroom.

While Sherlock still wondered, John found himself being dragged towards the dungeons by a girl – or was she a woman already? John guessed she was about 18 or 19 years old – in a black skirt and high heels a piece of parchment in one hand, on which a Quick-Quote-Quill was busy writing down things. She didn't speak with John, but he already had a feeling whom she worked for and, after struggling for seconds, he trotted with her, defeated.

Sure enough, when he stepped into one of the empty Potions classrooms, he caught sight of Mycroft, who was just conjuring up something silvery, that slowly patted from the left to the right once before making a jump right through the wall of the dungeon. Whatever the silvery thing was, it looked suspiciously like a fat Persian cat, one of those that looked like they were hit in the face by a truck, and although it was only a silver shade, John had the feeling that the cat would be ginger if it had any colour.

Some part of his brain wondered how Mycroft even conjured up the shade, not holding his wand or anything, but when the older Holmes turned towards John and crossed his legs at the ankles, leaning on his ever-present umbrella, John concentrated.

"Feeling nostalgic?" he asked, carefully watching the older boy.

"Concerned would be a better word."

"You seriously need a hobby." Maybe pissing Mycroft off was risky, but John found strange satisfaction in doing so, considering he was being kidnapped every other month or so.

Mycroft seemed unfazed, though. "I've got one. The same as you. It's called Sherlock Holmes."

John thought about flopping down on a chair, but then decided that was too dangerous if he actually had to run for whatever reason – no point in trusting Mycroft too much – and instead leaned against a table in a manner that looked cool, at least that was what he hoped. "What do you want? I'm still not spying on him."

"I thought so. But no, actually, there is more important matters on hand."

The Gryffindor didn't have to think long, and for once, he felt a bit like Sherlock, proud of himself for catching on so quickly. "Greyback."

Mycroft nodded. "Unfortunately, we have reason to believe that he will try to get to Hogwarts, and seeing as my brother doesn't seem to understand when he just should let things be, they are bound to meet sooner or later."

John's features hardened. "I'd rather not have them meeting at all."

"As do I, I assure you." Mycroft sighed, somewhat exhausted. "But it is Sherlock we're talking about and he never could let go of a mystery."

"What do you want from me then?"

Sherlock's brother's eyes drilled themselves into John's and the intense gaze was something both siblings had in common. John straightened his back.

"When the time comes, I want you to be there."

There were so many unspoken things hidden in this sentence, and for once, John felt something like sympathy with Mycroft – despite his weird ways, he really did care for Sherlock.

_I want you to be there to save him. To help him. To make sure he survives. To be there when everything comes tumbling down._

"I will." Not 'I'll try.' Not 'I hope I can.' Not 'Maybe.' It was out of question.

"I appreciate it."

And with that, the conversation was over. Later, when John caught up with his friends again and Sherlock inquired about his whereabouts – and assumed correctly that he'd been with Mycroft – John told him that Mycroft asked him to watch out for Sherlock, and the younger Holmes rolled his eyes, as always dismissing his brother's worries. John didn't tell him about what exactly they'd talked, but he hadn't lied – it was 'watching out'.

Grumbling, Sherlock walked over the grounds with John and they parted when John had to go to Care of Magical Creatures, while Sherlock went to collect samples of lake-water. It looked like the third school year had started out quite nicely.

X

The third year at Hogwarts brought more changes than just the number of subjects, though. John's father had sat his son – and Sherlock, for that matter, because he had the feeling that the Holmes family was not the type of family who cared about parenting much – down and had given them _the talk_. Even now, thinking back to it, John's face heated up and his cheeks flushed, but there had been no way to avoid this conversation. He knew before that babies grew inside women and that _stuff_ had to happen for that, and Sherlock even knew the term for it – sex – no doubt from reading all the books he did, but that was simply not a conversation John wanted to have. Not with his father, not with Sherlock – not with anyone, for that matter. He would've found out about it in books, eventually. Or the internet. Alone. Without it being awkward.

However, his father had insisted, and while Sherlock squirmed awkwardly during the whole talk, John had tried to make it through alive without dying of discomfort. Secretly, he had found some things useful, and other things he recognized already going on; he had grown quite a bit and was still doing so (and yes, he was proud of every extra inch!) and sometimes his voice gave out or started to squeak, especially when he was talking a lot or fast. Sherlock, despite being a bit younger was apparently going through one of these growth spurts, too, because while he had always been a tiny bit taller than John, he now grew rapidly and his body didn't seem to catch up with its own limbs – his usual grace was gone. To be honest, he still moved more graceful than everyone else John knew, but compared to his usual sense of balance, he seemed to be off, like he couldn't trust his own body anymore.

Now, after the talk, John could easily recognize all these things as part of puberty, but when the first _thing_ happened, a few days after his 14th birthday, he still was horrified.

He woke up and actually needed a moment to realize what unsettled him. He felt like he'd peed himself while being asleep. Mortified, he made a run for the bathroom (not bothering to turn on the lights in the dorm because he was afraid the others would notice) where he quickly changed into clean pants and trousers for the day. It was only then that he realized the stuff in his pyjamas was kind of sticky and didn't exactly look or smell like pee. And that's when he remembered what his father had told him about _erections_ and _wet dreams. _

John groaned. If that was going to be a regular occurrence, he was seriously doubting if that puberty thing was doing him any good at all – his growth spurt seemed to be over again, he still was rather short, and besides sticky pants and a squeaky voice, nothing was happening. He was grumpy the whole day and avoided Sherlock for fear of the Slytherin deducing what had happened to him that night – of course his plan didn't work out, seeing as they had Herbology and Muggle Studies together that day.

Sherlock gave him a few odd looks, but John was relieved when his friend didn't say a thing about The Incident, how John's brain had titled and capitalized the, well, incident, rather dramatically.

After that first time it didn't get better, though, and it was as if John's body had decided to be at war with its owner. He started getting erections at the stupidest times of the day – the first time when he was sitting in History of Magic and playing Hangman with Sarah, Molly and Greg, followed by not even three hours later while he tried to concentrate on what Professor McGonagall told them about switching teapots to tortoises. Both times, he felt like dying of shame and shifted around in his seat uncomfortably, praying that the school cloak was hiding what seemed to be a gigantic bulge at the front of his trousers. For once, the wizard cloaks that looked a bit ridiculous in everyday life actually came in handy.

It took John quite a while, but finally he'd gathered enough courage to start a whispered conversation with Greg (he'd tried with Sherlock, but the Slytherin was not having any of that talk and simply ignored John when he tried to direct their conversation to that topic). Ten minutes later with careful approach of the topic, John found out two things: not only Greg, but most of the other boys their age were going through the exact same thing at the moment, and all of them were equally embarrassed.

"I can deal with feeling like I've wet myself every morning, you know," Greg confided to John then, "but what is it with looking like I put my wand into my trousers all the time?!"

He looked seriously upset, but John couldn't help but laugh at his friend's choice of words. "Don't refer to it as your wand – seriously, I'll never be able to hold my wand ever again."

Now Greg burst out in laughter and John rolled his eyes, but giggled, too. This whole situation was just too stupid. Apparently immaturity was part of growing up – how ironic.

"I seriously wished I was a girl," Zack contributed to the conversation, sighing dramatically. "I mean, look at them – they just grow and get boobs-" he blushed a bit at the word, "-but nothing else is happening! I, on the other hand, get a squeaky voice and, and-" now he lowered his voice, "-there's hair growing everywhere!"

Oh yes. The hair was another thing. Maybe Zack was exaggerating a bit, but John had already noticed that his body obviously tried to turn into a Wookie. There was hair under his armpits, and more on his legs and even around his private parts. Oh, and only a few days ago he found one under his chin. He was growing a _beard_.

Alright, that was maybe a bit exaggerated, too, but still.

Later on in the school year, John should find out that puberty also did good things – he still grew at a very slow pace, but his shoulders got broader and he developed muscles, while the remains of his baby fat disappeared and his face became more angled. But for now, puberty was only annoying and unwelcome.

For Sherlock, too. The Slytherin knew exactly what was going on with his body – despite it only being transport for him, a necessity, something like a container for his mind, he was fully aware of what was happening and he dreaded every second of it.

The first unwanted hard-on occurred in the shower and despite his annoyance with his body, Sherlock – being who he was – took the chance to stare at it with a raised eyebrow. It appeared to be unimpressed by the death glare and Sherlock decided there needed something to be done.

And so he tried to will it down with his mind, trying to relax his whole body into an almost trance-like state; but to no avail. He knew these random erections were not even necessarily out of sexual attraction, but simply a way of his own body to betray his mind (at least, in Sherlock's opinion) so he did what always worked best if something was not appealing to his mind. He ignored it.

X

To say that Defence Against the Dark Arts turned into John's favourite subject, even before Potions, would have been an understatement. Simply learning spells for the past two years had been great, too, especially since those spells had saved both John's and Sherlock's lives on multiple occasions, but in Third Year, the students were finally allowed to learn about actual creatures and how to fend them off and something in fighting off Red Caps instead of just learning the spell without a target was extremely satisfying, especially after one of these little creatures tried to strangle John for the third time.

Fridays turned out to be especially great since John and Sherlock spent all day in classes together, starting out with Potions, where they were currently dealing with Confusing Concoctions. It was that type of potion Sherlock had marveled at Irene Adler for and John watched in slight amusement how much effort Sherlock, who never put effort into anything, put into mastering this potion.

True, his amusement had been somewhat dimmed when he caught Sherlock attempting to put some of his finished Concoction into the pumpkin juice of John and the rest of his friends, but after forcing him to promise not to try it again (and casting a quick spell to check for hidden substances – something he had mastered very quickly upon realizing that Sherlock liked to test various potions and substances on the people in his vicinity), John went back to being amused and slightly teasing Sherlock about his 'infatuation' with Irene Adler.

Friday got even better, because after Potions they were practicing Cheering Charms with Professor Flitwick and Sherlock, despite not seeing the point of such a charm, was really good at casting them, which resulted in an overly cheerful John and Greg after every lesson. John wasn't bad at casting this Charm, either, but somehow, the effects of a Cheering Charm seemed to be weird when it came to Sherlock. Being Sherlock, he never saw the appeal in beautiful sunlight, or a cloud-less sky or flowers or nice people, so the simplest things that appealed to his mind made him go over the top even more than usual – John had spent a good thirty minutes after a particularly well-done Cheering Charm in trying to pry Sherlock away from a water puddle on the floor below a sink because the droplet pattern reminded Sherlock of some molecule or another and he went into a monologue about light refraction in water.

When they finally made it to Defence Against the Dark Arts, everyone was already excited and the Professor, a woman called Hestia Jones – a former member of the famous Order of the Phoenix – was equally good-humoured and it looked like she really enjoyed teaching her students about all kinds of dark creatures. John liked her really much, too, and on this particular Friday, towards the end of November, about two and a half weeks after his birthday, he wondered what Professor Jones had in store for them when she awaited her class with her long black hair tied back into a ponytail and the sleeves of her blouse rolled up.

John had heard a few Slytherins and Ravenclaws making fun of her for dressing a lot like Muggles instead of the long robes and dresses most other witches liked to wear, but in John's eyes it made her look more professional and… combat-proved. Not to mention that she had survived the Second Wizarding War, which was another proof of her capability as well.

She had put all the chairs and tables to the sides of the classroom, creating a large space in the middle with a gigantic, old wardrobe standing in front of the blackboard. The students came in slowly and gathered in a crowd in a somewhat safe distance from the piece of furniture, most of them whispering to each other about the contents of it. When finally all students were present, Professor Jones clapped her hands with a smile and explained: "Alright – welcome to today's class. It's pretty obvious that we're going to do something with that wardrobe and as I heard some of you guessing correctly already, there is something inside. Does someone want to make a guess?"

Despite having discussed the topic seconds before, no one seemed to be willing to expose and possibly humiliate himself in front of the whole class, so after a moment of silence, Professor Jones scanned the crowd and rested her eyes on Sherlock, who looked back bored.

"Mr. Holmes – you surely have worked it out by now. Care to enlighten the rest of the class?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, as if the simple act of contributing to the lesson was too much to ask for, seeing as he didn't like or care for about 95% of the people surrounding him, but he honestly couldn't resist an opportunity to show off – it was maybe his weakness, but when John nudged him in the side, he sighed exaggerated and answered, voice flat: "We only discussed four types of creatures since the beginning of the school year – Imps, Pixies, Doxies and Boggarts – not counting the obligatory warning lesson about werewolves at the beginning of the year. Obvious as it is, you are not keeping a werewolf in there – he or she would be human, not even a threat in the living daylight anyways. Imps are ruled out since they inhabit marshland, not wardrobes. Now, Pixies and Doxies – could be, but unlikely since the banging and rattling sound coming from it is caused by only a single being and they appear in swarms; also, the creature inside the wardrobe is strong enough to slightly move it-"

As if on cue, the enormous wardrobe shivered a bit under a bang.

"-which would not be possible if it was only a single Pixie or Doxy. The only thing that's left is a Boggart."

Although most of the other students thought the Slytherin was weird, John noticed how they were all impressed by that showing of logic and the smug expression on Sherlock's face was clearly visible.

The Professor nodded and smiled. "Very well done, Mr. Holmes. That's 10 points for Slytherin." Then, she turned to face her whole class again. "How do you fend off a Boggart?"

John's hand rose instantly and when she nodded at him, he answered: "The spell is 'Riddikulus' and while casting it, one has to think of something that is funny or amusing, since the Boggart resembles the wizard's greatest fear."

"Correct. 5 points for Gryffindor." Then, she turned towards the wardrobe, raising her wand. "I want all of you to get in line, and face the Boggart. Remember the word – 'Riddikulus' – and think of something funny, something to ridicule it. Don't worry – if it gets too much for you, I'll step in. When you have succeeded, step aside for the next student. Ready?"

The students had already started to move and somehow, everyone tried to back away towards the wall as far as possible and John snorted when he saw that Greg had not realized what was going on and was now standing there as the first in line. Before his friend could protest, though, the Professor opened the wardrobe with a flick of her wand and the Boggart broke free, changing into Greg's biggest fear within a second and while Greg's eyes widened and his body tensed up, almost everyone looked at the Gryffindor in confusion.

A tall clown with a chalk-white face, bright red hair and a yellow balloon in his hands was slowly making his way over to Greg, while the poor boy didn't seem able to move.

"Lestrade, think of something funny and use the spell!" Professor Jones ordered, startling Greg from his trance and he slowly lifted his wand while the clown came closer and closer. Just when John felt slightly uncomfortable because the clown was really close now, Greg took a deep breath and called "RIDDIKULUS!", waving his wand and within seconds, an enormous bucket of water appeared over the clowns head and emptied itself over it, smudging the make-up that now ran down his face in streams and everyone broke out in laughter at the clowns dumbstruck face, while Greg swiftly stepped aside, a bit pale but otherwise okay.

"Clowns? Seriously? What's terrifying about clowns?" John teased Greg and the other boy shoved him, making a face.

"Shut up – I saw Stephen King's It when I was six or seven because my sister made me watch it and every since then, I'm terrified of that bloody clown."

John still chuckled when they both turned their attention back to the next student, who happened to be Mike. The soaked clown disappeared in a whirl of colour and instead, a man appeared, tall and broad, with a muscled, bare chest covered in thick dark hair. The hair went all the way up his neck and over his face, where the eyes were pale blue and his mouth was turned into a snarl. He hissed and raised his hands, with fingers bent like claws, ending in sharp nails.

"That's Greyback!" One student whispered and soon a discussion was going on while Mike tried his best to think of something funny, all the while the Greyback-Boggart came closer and closer. Finally, with a firm "Riddikulus!" Mike managed a dog basket, in which Greyback rolled up contently, while Mike moved aside and made room for Alec.

John had already wondered what Alec's greatest fear would be and he wasn't surprised when the Boggart turned into a hooded stranger. Of course none of the other students understood that, but Sherlock leaned forward a bit, looking interested.

"Do you think if Alec would do something to lift the hood, we would be able to see who the stranger was?" John whispered and after contemplating it for a moment, Sherlock shook his head slowly. "I don't think so – the Boggart is only the projection of one's fear, he can only take the information already inside Alec's mind. He doesn't know what's below the hood, so the Boggart doesn't know, either."

And they should never find out, because after a moment when Alec looked like a deer caught in headlights, he recited the spell and the black hood was covered in an enormous pink ball gown with glitter and a veil in front of the opening of the hood.

When Alec stepped aside, John realized it was his turn and he wondered briefly what the Boggart would turn into – he wasn't afraid of monsters under his bed because he'd seen real monsters with Sherlock, but he didn't think that spiders or a basilisk would appear. He was not afraid of them, not after having defeated them. However, as soon as the Boggart turned and started speaking John was caught off track and thought that it had to be obvious that it was his greatest fear and how could he not have seen that coming?

The Boggart changed rapidly from Harry, telling him how she hated him, to his mother sobbing about why he couldn't just be normal so that Harry and he wouldn't have to fight so much, to his father telling him he was a disappointment to the family, to Professor McGonagall telling him he failed all of his N.E.W.T.s and wouldn't be able to get any job because he was such a great failure. Then, it started to turn into John's friends, Greg, Mike, Zack, Alec, and finally, Sherlock, blaming him for various things, telling him he was useless, telling him to leave them alone. The class was absolutely quiet while the Boggart shamed John more and more, but finally, when the creature turned into Capper, the Gryffindor Quidditch team captain, telling John how overrated he really was, John straightened his back, brought his wand down in a whipping motion and a Bludger appeared out of nowhere, knocking out the Capper-boggart and sending him to the ground with a surprised "Omph!"

X

Sherlock watched John interestedly. He'd never admit it, but he was quite excited for what John's Boggart would turn into. He, very much like John, had already ruled out monsters of some sort, just because John already worked best under pressure and in lethal danger. Things John valued high was his family, his friends and a concept of honesty and loyalty, so Sherlock narrowed the Boggart down to either of these things. Maybe also John's own death by the basilisk- Sherlock banished the surging pictures of John's twitching body, before they could distract him again – but if John really feared for his life, he would've let Sherlock alone on so many occasions, so that was not possible either.

Then, John stepped to the front and the Boggart changed. It took Sherlock only seconds to recognize what was going on. Disappointment, being a failure, being abandoned.

Truth to be told, Sherlock was sure that John didn't think THAT low of himself, but maybe impossible John Watson was not afraid of anything strong enough so the Boggart had to stick to the next best thing.

Short, unimportant John Watson, who wanted to be a doctor and would sail down the Thames in a pirate ship with Sherlock Holmes if he asked, who jumped down a trap door without being asked, who followed Sherlock into the den of a monster without questioning it – this exact John Watson was too brave for a Boggart.

Sherlock didn't smile so anyone could see it, but when his eyes met John's, he knew that the Gryffindor knew.

Still in thoughts, Sherlock stepped forwards then, and he realized his mistake within seconds when the Boggart turned into the lifeless body of John on the ground, the piercing fang of the basilisk embed into his chest, his skin unnaturally pale, dark veins creeping up his necks and eyes turned towards the ceiling lifeless.

Being Sherlock, it only took him a split second to banish the picture in his mind away and when he did, the Boggart changed its appearance again, now resembling a giant spider. The Slytherin was fairly sure that no-one had been able to catch his slip-up, seeing as they were still busy applauding John for defeating the Boggart, just like they had with everyone else, and also seeing as Sherlock had successfully hidden that fear further down in his mind. Unnecessary to say Sherlock had just outsmarted the Boggart with his mind, simply hiding his fear.

However, something in seeing this spider send a shiver down his spine, although he was not sure if that was what actual fear felt like – he'd thought he'd felt fear when John had been lying on the cold marble of the Chamber-

He took a deep breath, called out "Riddikulus!" and concentrated on something funny – in his opinion, at least – and watched satisfied how a even bigger Auriga appeared from nowhere and trapped the giant spider between her teeth before swallowing it whole. Ah, his cat never failed to amuse him.

Sherlock moved to sit next to John at the side of the classroom and for a while, they watched some other students fighting their personal fears, going from a mummy to two or three more Greybacks to a vampire – and, in Zack's case, the Whomping Willow who then proceeded to be attacked by beavers – until John suddenly asked: "A spider? You never told me you were afraid of spiders."

"You never told me you are dating or at least frequently kissing Sarah Sawyer for two or three weeks now – most likely since your birthday," Sherlock replied easily. He watched how John's cheeks tilted pink a bit – embarrassment? Shame? Attraction? Definitely not the last, and more probably the first than the second, before the Gryffindor replied: "Well, you are obviously able to deduce those things – besides, I didn't think you cared. After all, you're the one who said love was just chemicals and reactions in someone's brain."

"So you're in love?" That was interesting and Sherlock narrowed his eyes a bit, taking in John.

"What- no! I mean, you can't- We were talking about your spider, weren't we?"

"I didn't think I feared spiders," Sherlock gave in. It was obvious John wasn't going to go into more detail, so the topic had to rest for now. "On the other hand, you are clearly not _that_ self-conscious about being a disappointment - although you do aim to please - so I suspect the Boggart just used something we feel negative about."

That put a grin to John's face. "So we're basically fearless!" He boxed the air. "We are awesome!"

Sherlock was very tempted to correct him, because that wasn't what he'd just explained, now, was it, but John gave him one of these looks he had come to interpret as "Don't say anything to ruin this moment" and so he kept quiet.

Both boys attention was brought back to the events going on at the front of the class when an obviously very frightened Jim Moriarty slowly backed away and stated that he didn't want to do the Boggart task. Professor Jones came over to him and talked to him quietly for a moment, before she turned to the class and announced: "Very well done, everyone! I am going to lock the Boggart back into the wardrobe now and then we'll finish this class."

She turned towards the creature that now turned from a giant rat – courtesy of a Gryffindor girl – to something in a black, tattered hood. Instantly, the mood in the classroom sunk and everyone started to feel really depressed.

Their teacher called "Expecto Patronum", though, and something silvery broke free from the tip of her wand, turning into the shape of a hawk and chasing the hooded thing through the room and right into the wardrobe, which Jones locked with a flick of her wand. The silver hawk dissolved into thin air then.

"So the Boggart reacts to counter-spells designed for certain creatures, too? If I were to be afraid of, say, Devil's Snare and produced flames instead of using 'Riddikulus', I could defeat it, too?" Sherlock asked and for once turned his full attention to the Professor.

"Correct, Mr. Holmes. The Boggart gains some abilities of the thing it morphs into, but it also gains its weakness. To fully defeat it, though, the Riddikulus-Charm is necessary."

Sherlock filed away this information and fully intended to return to his mind, thinking about one thing or the other, when a small Gryffindor girl raised her hand. "Excuse me, Professor, but was that… was that a Dementor? Is that what they look like?"

"Yes, Miss Miles, that is what a Dementor looks like-" Professor Jones now looked at the whole class, "the usual curriculum doesn't involve you learning about Dementors and the Patronus-Charm before the fifth or sixth year because it is difficult and powerful magic, but I encourage everyone of you who is interested to join me tomorrow afternoon for an extra-lesson about them. Harry Potter managed the spell in his Third Year and it saved him multiple times, so I don't see why all of you shouldn't be able to do the same thing."

With these last words, the class was dismissed and the students happily left the classroom, ready for the weekend. In the hallway, John stopped, though and looked at the rest of his dorm and Sherlock.

"Are you going to the extra-lesson tomorrow? I think it would be cool…"

Greg nodded, but the others shook their heads.

"You know, you're awesome with all kind of spells, but I don't think I'd be able to do it, so why bother?" Zack elaborated and grinned. Mike nodded in affirmation.

"Sherlock?" John looked at his friend expectantly. To his surprise, the Slytherin actually nodded.

"I think it would be useful to be able to fend off Dementors – besides, I know from Mycroft that Patronuses can deliver messages, and that would definitely be an advantage."

And so it was decided.

X

"Alright class – I'm glad that so many of you have decided to join me this afternoon. We will talk about Dementors for a bit, and then I am going to teach you the Patronus Charm, which we will practice. Obviously, there will be no real Dementor, but once you figure out how to do the Charm, you should be able to do it with a Dementor around – you will at least be better prepared than those who decided not to come today." Professor Jones clapped her hands. "Alright, who – besides Mr. Holmes – knows what Dementors do?"

John grinned when she winked towards where he, Greg and Sherlock were standing – although Sherlock either ignored or simply hadn't heard what she'd said – and already decided that coming here for an extra lesson had been a good idea.

Besides the three of them, there were only two Hufflepuffs, a boy John didn't know and a girl with dark skin and dark curly hair called Sally Donovan, Sebastian Moran from Sherlock's dorm, and Sarah and Molly from Ravenclaw.

Sarah and John exchanged glances and smiles, but kept their distance – it was true, she had congratulated John for his birthday and he, out of an impulse, at leaned in and kissed her on the lips chastely (only to colour bright red and stare at her horrified afterwards), but she hadn't minded and now they were sort of going out, which basically meant they sometimes met in the library to do homework together and held hands under the table one or two times. Oh, and they kissed. Like, a lot. With closed mouths, but still.

John had not necessarily been hiding this from Sherlock or any of his other friends – he'd told Greg instantly and the others had found out about it by themselves naturally, seeing as Sarah sometimes waited for him in front of the Gryffindor common room or he went over to meet her at the Ravenclaw table, but Sherlock had never paid much attention to the things John did when they were not together and admittedly, John was a bit careful about telling Sherlock when he was spending time with Sarah, simply because Sherlock had the tendency to need him whenever he was spending time with her.

Another reason for Sarah and Molly to stand away from them was that Molly was still hopelessly crushing on Sherlock, who never seemed to notice her or, if he did, was either completely ignorant to her feelings or chose to ignore them.

Sally Donovan, in the meantime, had obviously answered Professor Jones' question, because now the Professor summed up: "Quite right – so, Dementors are dark creatures that feed of happiness, cause sadness and, by longtime exposure, can cause depression and madness. That was why the Ministry kept them at Azkaban for so long – now they have been claimed untrustworthy, because they chose Voldemort's side in the Second Wizarding War, but a few of them still surround Azkaban, because they are attracted to evil spirits like moths to the light."

"But why don't the guards simply chase them away?" Molly asked tentatively.

"They may be untrustworthy, but they are quite effective – most prisoners simply don't break out because they know the Dementors are waiting outside, and casting a Patronus Charm is not even an easy task when you have your _own_ wand – with a stranger's wand it's impossible, not to mention that only those of a pure hard can conjure up a Patronus in the first place."

"So the Ministry tolerates them because they 'work for free'?" Greg clarified and their teacher nodded with a grim look on her face.

"The Minister has done a great job since the end of the war, but some things are out of his control. You can't stop moths going after the light. All the Ministry can do is to keep them out of Azkaban, which is already a great step towards human dignity."

Moran mumbled something like 'Human dignity for a werewolf?' and John, while not agreeing with how disgusted Moran sounded when saying 'werewolf' – after all, having been turned into one hadn't been Greyback's fault –found himself agreeing with the thought behind Moran's utterance – Greyback, from everything he had heard, was an evil being through and through and maybe having him guarded in a more drastic manner would've helped. Immediately after thinking so, John felt bad, though, because encountering Dementors was nothing he ever wished someone, not after the admittedly small encounter with the Boggart-Dementor.

"So, now that we know how a Dementor looks like and what he does, we're going to look at how to defeat them. The Patronus Charm. Please, form a line and watch me."

Professor Jones lifted her wand, concentrated for a moment and then called out in a clear, strong voice: "Expecto Patronum!" Just like in the lesson the day earlier, silver mist broke free from the tip of her wand, formed a hawk that wheeled over their heads for a moment and then vanished.

"That was a corporeal Patronus. Corporeal Patronuses take the form of an animal that resembles the casters' personality best, although they may change when one is in love or feels great affection towards a person. In that case, the Patronus animal might change to something that resembles the significant other's Patronus," the professor explained and the girls in the room let out dreamy sighs which caused Sherlock to raise his eyebrows. "There are also non-corporeal Patronuses that simply look like silver mist – these are effective against Dementors, too, but only a corporeal Patronus is able to fend them off permanently."

"Oh my god, I really hope I don't have a really embarrassing animal as corporeal Patronus," Greg whispered. "Imagine having like… a bee or something. Or a rat."

"I must inform you that bees are very useful and interesting animals, although I can assure you that your Patronus will not be a bee – the proverb says 'busy as a bee' after all." Sherlock looked smug and Greg reached out to shove him lightly. "Oi, watch it, Holmes."

For a while after that, Professor Jones let them practice the words and concentrate on a happy memory – "The key is to produce a happy, good memory, the happiest, strongest memory you have," Jones had explained. "Dementors feed off negative energy and the Patronus will only consist of positive energy. It will function as your shield, but the Dementor will not be able to feed of it and therefore the Patronus can defeat it. So think of the happiest thing you can, let it fill your mind – and stay focused on that thought all the time!"

And when they finally tried to cast it, everyone managed a non-corporeal Patronus instantly and Greg of all people, Greg who had worried the most about it, seemed to concentrate very hard and suddenly, the silver mist coming out of his wand thickened and shrunk to something lean and suddenly, a small silver fox was chasing through the room, jumping on chairs, racing between legs of tables and then vanished.

The others applauded while their own silver mists disappeared but the only one who didn't seem to understand what was going on was Greg who just stared at the point where the fox had vanished.

"Congratulations, Lestrade – not many students manage a corporeal Patronus, let alone on the first try. You should think about becoming an Auror if you're good with these kind of charms."

"I- yes, I thought about it…" Greg mumbled, and still stared after his Patronus.

"Well, all of you can practice some more – but remember, it's a difficult spell and a lot of adults can't conjure up a corporeal Patronus. And of course it is more difficult with actual Dementors around, because they will make you feel sad and thinking happy thoughts will be increasingly harder, but I'm positive you will do great."

Encouraged by Greg's success, the students tried some more, but no one managed a Patronus that resembled some kind of animal, and especially Sherlock grew frustrated with it. John felt a bit insecure, too – he thought really hard about his kiss with Sarah, but other than the white mist, his Patronus wouldn't take a real form.

Finally, afternoon had turned into evening already, Professor Jones dismissed the class and Sherlock said a brief goodbye, obviously in a bad mood because he hadn't managed a corporeal Patronus and John decided to let him sulk alone – Sherlock truly was horrible when he was in a bad mood and he tended to blow potions and experiments up just for the fun of it until he felt better. The two Gryffindors climbed the stairs back to the common room when John nudged Greg and grinned: "Congrats, mate! You managed a corporeal Patronus and it wasn't an embarrassing one!"

Greg grinned back. "Yeah, still can't quite believe it. I suppose I can live with a fox, though. Maybe Sherlock's will be a bee, though, seeing as he's so fond of them."

John snorted. "Nah, I'd bet on something like a Thestral – you know, creepy, but breathtaking."

Greg stopped in his tracks. "Did you just describe Sherlock as 'breathtaking'?" He raised an eyebrow and his grin even widened. "I have to tell Sarah that."

"Oh shut up!" John had flushed in a deep shade of red. "You know what I mean – with his deductions and stuff!"

"Sure," Greg nodded, but the grin didn't leave his face.

"Idiot," John mumbled and they walked next to each other in silence for a while before he asked: "What did you think of, by the way? When you cast the Patronus, I mean?"

Greg laughed. "Oh, I thought of the day when I found Sherlock vomiting snails- sorry, _slugs_."

"That's horrible," John snorted.

"But it was soooo good – remember his face?" Greg laughed even louder. Then, he tried to sober up a bit. "I mean, yeah, I feel sorry for him – but the whole thing just cracks me up every time I think about it. I guess that's what made it so easy for me, with the Patronus I mean."

"Oh that's just cheating – I thought of Sarah, shouldn't I get a Patronus, too?" John complained, but without real envy.

"Worry young padawan, do not. Learn it one day, you will." Greg replied, in his best Yoda-impression.

It was moments like these, when between all the madness that Hogwarts was with its threat by escaped werewolves, Dementors, Boggarts and Patronus Charms, you had a mate coming from a Muggle family, and he simply quoted Star Wars and you realized what a lucky bastard you were, having awesome friends like him.

John had this realization at that moment and he laughed loudly, simply because he could – he was a wizard, he was at Hogwarts, he had a bloody girlfriend and the best mates someone could hope for. Maybe, with this thought, his next Patronus would work.

X

The first Quidditch match of the season, Gryffindor versus Slytherin, as usual, took place in the middle of November. It was a clear day, without rain or wind and although the sky was grey, the sight was clear.

From his place in front of the goal posts, John could easily overlook the ranks with cheering fans, the Gryffindors to his left and the Slytherins to his right. Sherlock was now sitting with Zack, Mike and Alec since Mycroft wasn't around anymore to force him to sit with the Slytherins and Sherlock simply didn't care what the others thought and talked about – he was the topic of a lot of conversations anyways, so it didn't do any more harm to sit with the Gryffindors. It wasn't like he was actively cheering or anything, too. He just sat there, looking like he'd rather be somewhere else, but John was sure the Slytherin secretly enjoyed coming because if he _really_ wanted to be somewhere else, he would have been.

Sarah and Molly sat with the Gryffindors, too, and John sat a bit straighter on his broom when he noticed Sarah's eyes on him. A silly grin spread over his face.

"Oi, John, stop dreaming!" Greg called out when he swooshed past, chasing after a Bludger, and John snorted but focused back to the game – right now, the Gryffindors had the Quaffle, though, so he wasn't in immediate danger.

He heard a hissing sound getting louder rapidly and turned his head, only to see a Bludger coming towards him at a rapid pace. Avoiding it would've been easy, really, all John would've had to do was flying up or down a bit, but instead, he decided to do something he'd practiced quite a lot – admittedly, ever since he'd been hit off his broom in Second Year, he'd developed some sort of obsession with avoiding them as creatively as possible. And so he waited until the aggressive ball was really close and then simply tilted his whole body to the right, tightening his grip around the broom and toppled over, swinging around the broomstick in a swift motion while the Bludger shot past him. He had enough drive to swing around his broomstick completely and when he was sitting upright again, he grinned as the crowd made an approving 'ooooh'. He even winked at Sarah, but he wasn't sure if she actually saw that since she was far away.

A angry roar from the middle of the field drew his attention back there and he saw how Capper dropped the Quaffle and one of the Slytherins caught it, making his way over to the Gryffindor goal posts. John instantly got serious and narrowed his eyes, awaiting his opponent.

And all of the sudden, John felt incredibly sad. Every single bad memory he had seemed to suddenly come into his mind – when his favourite aunt had died, when Harry had yelled at him for the first time, seeing the winged keys dying on the ground, seeing the squib die, leaving behind a newfound friend at the train station when he was six, almost dying in the Chamber of Secrets – it all hit him with full force, seemingly without reason. He heard yelling inside his head, Harry yelling at him, their parents yelling at Harry while he tried to sleep, and suddenly his stomach gave away when the memory of falling through the air after being knocked off his broom settled in.

He brought one hand to the side of his head and narrowed his eyes, while more and more Quidditch players suddenly seemed to feel weird, too. The Slytherin Chaser dropped the Quaffle, but no one dove after it.

John felt something running down his cheek and he realized he was crying. Through the tears, he noticed how the crowd had gone silent and the teachers in one of the towers were standing up now, but whatever it was that affected the Quidditch teams, it hadn't reached the stands yet. Maybe he should just fly to the ground and sit down – honestly, he felt like just curling up into a ball and crying for hours, they sky was grey and depressing, it was very cold suddenly and a hopelessness like he'd never felt before settled in him.

And that's when he saw a black piece of cloth between the clouds.

GO AFTER IT.

It was almost as if Sherlock was on the broomstick with him, yelling at him through his tears and the sadness. Well, it didn't really matter, now, did it? It was pointless to go after the cloth, and landing would be so much better, just curling up and never getting up again.

DON'T BE DULL, JOHN, GO AFTER IT.

Sherlock's voice was really persistent and the cold suddenly went away bit, as if whatever emitted it was moving a bit away from John. It was only then that he could gather his thoughts a bit and he realized what was going on – sadness, cold, desperation, a black cloth. You didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to recognize a Dementor.

On the ground, Madame Hooch was currently climbing her broom to check the situation, while some of the teachers were summoning broomsticks, too, to check what was going on. But John didn't wait, couldn't wait, and simply pulled out his wand from between the pads covering his chest and yanked his Firebolt around, shooting off into the sky between the clouds.

Finding the Dementor was surprisingly easy. After all, it was a dark black spot between all the grey. Something else surprisingly easy was the realization that going after a Dementor if you were a Third Year student all by yourself was a bad idea. Especially if that Dementor noticed you.

John had no time to figure out what the Dementor was planning to achieve, but when the creature took notice of John, it instantly turned and came closer, bringing all the cold and desperation with it and with one last clear thought, John remembered to yank the Firebolt around one more time to speed away from the rapidly approaching creature.

Below him, on the Quidditch field, his team had obviously caught itself again and they landed – no one had seemed to realize that John was missing at the moment, and then he concentrated on fleeing the depression behind him. If he only managed to put enough distance between himself and the Dementor, he could concentrate enough to try the Patronus – there was no way he was leading that creature back down to the field, even if the Professors could defeat it then – exposing a great amount of Hogwarts students to that feeling of sadness and despair was something John didn't want to be responsible for.

However, it seemed like the Dementor was not giving up on him so easily and John panicked a bit when he felt the desperation getting bigger again, his mind slowed down and now he knew why someone was 'paralyzed with fear' – his limbs felt heavy and he slowed down on the Firebolt measurably.

Slowly, as if he was underwater, he turned his head to see how far away the Dementor still was, but instead of seeing the creature in the distance, he found himself face to face with the dark hood. The fear caused his heart to hammer inside his chest in a wild rhythm and he heard a slurping sound from far, while his vision blurred and his limbs got even heavier than before. Something was dragged from him, from his chest, something he felt was essential and the tiny remaining part of his mind that wasn't numb with fear and sadness – and sounded suspiciously like Sherlock – told him that this was the famous Dementor's Kiss, the taking of John's soul.

… _leaving the person as an empty shell, alike to a comatose patient… _

Sherlock's words were sounding through his brain. Well, he might be comatose, but if he fell off his broom, he would be dead, that was sure.

_I don't want you to die._

Six simple words. Said by Sherlock, in a tone others would talk about the weather. And yet they meant so much. Sherlock had saved his life. And he had saved Sherlock's.

Images flashed through John's mind – the first time he'd seen Sherlock in the Hogwarts express, pale, inquisitive eyes and bouncing curls. John running after Sherlock in a dark forest. Sherlock's coat around his shoulders, both of them covered in dirt and grime. A pale Sherlock with a cut on his cheek, in front of the Mirror of Erised. Glistening eyes in the darkness of the Hospital Wing, after Molly's petrification. Sherlock, pale and terrified, staring down at John's trembling body in the Chamber of Secrets. And in between, delight, always delight – on adventures, after experiments, in class.

A smile forced itself on John's face, despite all the depression radiating from the Dementor, and the smile grew bigger and bigger, and John knew what he had to do, he knew the words.

John Watson was not going to be mindless vegetable, he was not going to let the Dementor win, he was not going to give in because, for God's sake, JOHN WATSON WAS GOING TO LIVE AND GO ON ADVENTURES AND KISS SARAH AND PLAY QUIDDITCH AND SAVE SHERLOCK'S BLOODY ASS!

His wand came up easily, and the words toppled from his tongue and he didn't intend to scream, but he nevertheless did and with a roar of "EXPECTO PATRONUM" the silver mist broke free from the tip of John's wand – only the silver that poured out of the tip of the 11-inches holly wood wand with dragon heartstring core was not silver mist, but a fully grown lion with an impressive mane and enormous fangs and he pounced straight at the Dementor, that backed away rapidly.

The instant his Patronus – a corporeal one, a lion! – attacked the Dementor, John felt his head clear and he didn't lose time but directed the Firebolt down towards the Quidditch pitch again, away from the Dementor and into the security that the ground, students and professors provided. However, halfway on his way back to the ground, he looked to the right as something silvery had appeared in the corner of his eyes and he found his lion Patronus run alongside him easily. John wasn't sure how exactly Patronuses worked, but for a moment, the lion's and his eyes met and he got an oddly warm feeling. It was only then that he realized that he was back on the pitch again and the lion stopped in his tracks, circled John one last time and then vanished into thin air.

Almost instantly a crowd of teachers, Madame Hooch and the Gryffindor Quidditch team surrounded him and bombarded him with questions, while he tried to understand all of them talking at the same time. Finally, Professor McGonagall – who looked really out of place on a broom, but nevertheless eradiated authority – silenced everyone.

"You are coming down to the ground with us right now."

John followed, decidedly slower on his Firebolt because it somehow seemed like a bad idea to go past his Head of House and Headmistress just because he had a faster broom.

Back on the ground, Professor McGonagall sent away everyone besides the other heads of houses and Professor Jones, who watched John interestedly. The, the Headmistress spoke up.

"Watson, am I assuming correctly that there was a Dementor involved?"

"Yes, Professor," John answered.

"And you did go after that Dementor all by yourself instead of landing and getting into safe hands?"

"Yes, Professor." This time, he didn't sound so confident anymore.

"Did the Dementor leave the grounds? How did you escape it?"

"I think my Patronus chased it away," John answered, now quite unsure if he'd done the right thing – true, in the heat of battle, so to speak, facing the Dementor to protect everyone had sounded heroic, but under the stern look of Professor McGonagall, John felt increasingly stupid for doing so.

"The lion was your Patronus then?" Professor Jones asked, a smile spreading on her face.

"Yes. I was a bit surprised myself," John admitted, grinning sheepishly.

"Well, it's highly unusual that someone who can't conjure up a Patronus without a Dementor present can do so in the presence of one, but you seem to be a lucky case." The Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher gave him an approving nod and John felt a bit better about chasing after the Dementor by himself again, now that he knew at least someone seemed to be on his side. On the other hand, it wasn't as of Professor McGonagall was wrong – landing would have definitely been the wiser choice.

"Mr. Watson, your debatable heroism aside, you are a remarkable wizard. I'm granting Gryffindor 10 points for the character trait of our house you seem to have internalized so well, but I highly recommend you to watch the gap between bravery and stupidity very closely – your independent pursue was a balancing act between those two things."

John lowered his head, cheeks flushing a bit, and he nodded quickly. "Yes, thank you, Professor."

The Headmistress then turned towards the waiting Quidditch teams (which members all looked really pale and many had streaks on their cheeks that seemed to be from dried tears) and announced: "This game is over – I'm afraid we have to search the grounds for the Dementor first and continuing this match would be a careless act. However, each of your houses will be granted the score you have achieved up until now."

And despite being a bit grumpy about the abrupt end of the match, both teams left the pitch peacefully, since they both had scored 20 points up until the interruption. At least it was a tie. John turned to leave with his team, already feeling the inquisitive looks of Greg on him, but then his eyes found Sherlock at the side of the pitch, and John decided that he could always change back in his dorm. With one last look to the sky, he grabbed the Firebolt tighter and made his way over to the waiting Slytherin.

X

They were lying on their backs in the grass, staring up to the grey sky. John was still wearing most of his Quidditch gear and his broom was positioned next to him, his fingers still loosely curled around it.

He briefly wondered what Sherlock and he would look like from the sky – probably like two starfish, spread out on the ground. It had actually been Sherlock who'd simply flopped down on the ground halfway back to the castle and John, a bit sweaty and muddy, tired from the game, and exhausted from his encounter with the Dementor, had followed suit.

"Remember the first time we were lying here?" The Gryffindor stated, following heavy clouds with his eyes. It would probably rain later, but it wasn't too cold at the moment and there was no wind. "I had just realized I knew you from when we were kids."

"Of course I remember." Sherlock, as per usual when John asked questions that were obviously stupid, sounded a bit offended, but did nothing to chastise him further.

"I wonder if we look like starfish from up there," John mused then, deciding to try how long he could be 'childish' until Sherlock snapped.

"Don't be ridiculous."

"But if it starts raining and the world would simply flood, we would be lying at the ground of the ocean, and we'd look like starfish."

Sherlock sighed exasperatedly.

"Then again, maybe I should avoid the rain – I found a crystal ball on the floor yesterday and took it back to the Divination classroom and Professor Trelawny told me I would die a horrible death by drowning soon."

When Sherlock didn't make any sound whatsoever, John turned his head, grinning, and was met by a death glare that would've probably killed him if that would have been possible – so much for drowning.

"You are especially annoying today," Sherlock informed him.

"And you are especially charming."

"Are you doing this on purpose?" Sherlock still looked at him, one eyebrow raised.

"Hey, I was in danger today, I get to be annoying if I want to – besides, I know you want to talk about the Dementor, that's why we're here," John defended himself good-naturedly.

Sherlock huffed. "You weren't in danger; you had the situation under control. I have to say, I didn't expect you to be able to create a corporeal Patronus." That was not quite right, obviously. Sherlock in fact had expected that if anyone would be able to create a corporeal Patronus while being in the situation of being close to having one's soul sucked out, it would definitely be John. All insecurity seemed to fall off the Gryffindor when situations got serious.

"Thanks, I think?"

The Slytherin waved his hand dismissively. "Yes – now, why do you think the Dementor showed up for the game?"

John was almost tempted to sit up to stare at Sherlock in disbelief, but then decided to just stay on the ground, because he felt really exhausted. But seriously – Sherlock asked him for his opinion? Since _when?_

"Uhm- maybe… maybe it was looking for Greyback? Maybe the Ministry sent it to search for him?"

"McGonagall wouldn't have been so furious then – the Ministry would have informed her if they'd sent a Dementor – and I don't think she would have allowed that."

"So it wasn't looking for Greyback? It was just a … wild Dementor? Do they just randomly fly around?"

"Do keep up, John – I never said it wasn't looking for Greyback. In fact, I strongly belief that it was searching for him and that it has tracked him down to Hogwarts. 'Dementors are attracted to evil spirits', that's part of the definition."

Now John sat up, faster than lightning. "You think Greyback is on school grounds already?!"

"I should suspect so – although, if he is remotely smart, which I think is the case, he has left by now. Not too far away, but not on the grounds anymore." Sherlock seemed very relaxed and John, for the lack of anything else to do, lay back, too, staring up to the clouds once more.

"So we can do nothing?"

"No." Sherlock sounded a bit disappointed. "We have to wait for him to make a mistake."

"Sherlock, you do realize that we can't catch him? He's a powerful wizard and a werewolf whereas we're 14 and 13."

"You forgot something important, though." Sherlock had turned his head and in the grey light of the day his pale eyes looked more mysterious than usual, piercing bright against pale skin and dark curls. A grin was spreading on his face. "I'm smarter than most people and you do fairly well with Charms like the Patronus Charm. You've faced death already, right?"

"Yes?"

"You've seen monsters."

"Well, yes."

"We've been in trouble numerous times."

"Of course, yes, I know."

Sherlock smirked. "Well then - want to catch a werewolf?"

John wanted to say 'You're mad'. And 'We can't'. And 'Don't be ridiculous'. And 'A silver mist lion isn't going to help us against a bloody werewolf'. But instead he just grinned back. "Oh, God, yes!"

The two starfish stayed on their backs in the grass for a long time, Sherlock spinning different ideas and theories about Greyback while John listened, laughed and planned along.


	10. Third Year - Part II

At the beginning of December, Sherlock was able to solve the mystery of how both, Sirius Black and Fenrir Greyback had been able to escape Azkaban and while John marveled at the sheer brilliance of how Sherlock's mind worked, it was only fair to keep in mind that one of Professor McGonagall's Transfiguration lessons had been responsible to provide the missing puzzle piece Sherlock needed to solve the case.

It was known in the whole school that Professor McGonagall was able to turn into a cat and back into a human again, John had even experienced that when he'd been caught after sneaking into the Forbidden Forest with Sherlock in his first year, but it was only in the lessons about Animagi that everyone learned more about it.

"The wizard in his animal form can still think and decide like a human being, but most human emotions are dulled due to the instincts of the animal."

John had listened interestedly, as had most other students, since becoming an animal seemed like a beckoning opportunity for them, but Professor McGonagall made a good job warning them about how difficult the process of acquiring that ability was and how many things could go wrong. Sherlock next to John, however, seemed to have zoned out suddenly and John already worried about his friend when the end of the class crept closer, but when they were excused, Sherlock suddenly jumped up, buzzing with energy and in a frenzy like John hadn't seen him in a long time, excitement practically oozing from him.

"We need to go to the library asap!" was all Sherlock called out before bouncing off, leaving behind a mildly irritated John.

"What is wrong with him?" Greg asked, following John's stare down to where Sherlock made his way through the mass of students by simply running them over without slowing down much.

"I'm not sure but I should probably go after him," John sighed. "Last time he was like that he thought he'd discovered the formula to create a Philosopher's Stone, and ended up with a burning cloak from his exploded cauldron."

"Why don't I know of that?" Greg seemed a bit offended that he hadn't been informed of that in his eyes hilarious incident.

"Oh, it was the day when you thought it smelled like barbeque all day."

"That was Sherlock?"

"Yes- listen, I better go after him. See you later!" And with that, John dashed off.

He found Sherlock ten minutes later in a corner of the library, with towers of books next to him, while the genius thumbed through three gigantic tomes simultaneously. The Slytherin looked up when John cleared his throat and pure glee was shining on his face that was usually bare of any emotion.

"I know how they did it!" he called out excitedly, not caring that Madam Pince, the librarian, sent him a nasty look and shushed him.

John was immediately infected with Sherlock's good mood and smiled before stepping closer and sitting down opposite his friend. "Alright – now, for normal-pace-thinking people, you know how who did what?" John laughed and for once, Sherlock didn't seem to be bothered to explain.

"I know how Sirius Black and Fenrir Greyback escaped the Dementors. It's obvious, really, if you know about Animagi!"

It wasn't obvious to John, though, so Sherlock pulled his legs up until he sat on his chair straight, brought his hands together and positioned them under his chin before explaining: "I already figured that they both had the ability to turn into an animal in common – while it's fairly obvious with Greyback, Black caused problems. The solution is simple: Black had to be an unregistered Animagus."

John nodded to show that he was still following, completely mesmerized by Sherlock's explanations. "McGonagall told us that the emotions of a wizard in animal form are dulled – and that's what makes it so perfect, do you see it, John?" Sherlock leaned forward now, a smile slowly spreading on his face while he stared into John's eyes. The Gryffindor smiled a bit helplessly as to keep Sherlock talking.

"Dementors feed on emotion, and if the instincts of an animal dull human emotions, there is nothing for the Dementor to feed on and the target becomes uninteresting!" Sherlock was positively beaming by now and the light falling in through the large windows painted a soft pattern on his pale skin and created a halo that framed his curls. He was _radiant_.

"You are incredible, seriously," John stated, not bothering to hold back his admiration – he knew Sherlock loved if he was able to amaze someone, so a bit of rewarding the genius was by all means appropriate.

"Oh, I'm on fire today," Sherlock continued, now jumping up from his chair and pacing in front of the window. "You see, it's also the perfect disguise – the Dementors are blind, they can't distinguish between animals and people, they rely on their ability to sense emotions – which is of course clouded if someone turns into an animal. They're probably not even able to comprehend the sudden change from emotional being to less- or non-emotional being; to them it must look like someone simply has gone mad."

"Wow that's… You do realize that you just outsmarted the Ministry Aurors?" John asked, and Sherlock just snorted. "That was hardly difficult. They employ people like Mycroft, after all."

Now John had to laugh, too, despite it being probably too much for Sherlock's ego to be agreed with all the time. "So what do we do now? It's great to know how they escaped but, uhm, that's hardly useful knowledge to catch Greyback, right?"

Sherlock pouted for a moment, before returning to the table and shoving two of the tomes towards the Gryffindor, still vibrating with energy. "Maybe not, but becoming an Animagus, John? That is useful knowledge – much better than naming stupid stars and planets!" He pointed at the picture of a man, halfway through the transformation of becoming an eagle or falcon of some sort. "Imagine the possibilities one would have when being able to turn into some sort of spying animal, something small-"

"But you can't control it, that's what McGonagall said," John chipped in.

"Still. Isn't the prospect of turning into something considered innocent fascinating? Something that allows you, by all means, an escape if you need one?"

John cocked his head and looked at the tomes for a bit longer. Slowly, a grin spread on his face. "It is really cool, yes."

Sherlock clapped his hands satisfied and dumped another three or four books in front of John before grabbing one for himself. "Then let's find out how to become an Animagus. Really, with my mind and your-"

The Gryffindor raised an eyebrow, looking at him. "Yes?"

"-well, your ability to approach a topic from a less complex point of view-"

"Excuse me?"

"- oh don't be offended, you know what I mean, it's more of a general term-"

"You're not being very-"

Their easy banter was interrupted by Madame Pince again, who this time simply kicked them out, complete with all the heavy tomes and everything. Sherlock wasn't bothered, though, and simply sat down in a quiet hallway and started to read everything he could, while John rolled his eyes and, flopping down next to his friend, picked up his own volume. It looked like they were going to be Animagi.

X

Shortly before Christmas something came up that send everyone besides Sherlock into giddy excitement and replaced the disappointment of not being able to turn into an animal yet – well, John hadn't really expected for them to become Animagi within three weeks time but apparently Sherlock had and was in a foul mood lately. And not even the prospect of finally being allowed to go to Hogsmeade seemed to be able to make him feel better.

There was supposed to be a first trip to Hogsmeade already, around Halloween, but in the light of the escape of Greyback, it had been deemed to be too dangerous, but apparently the staff had decided on a Christmas treat and the students were allowed to the village this time, although almost all Professors went down with them, standing guard at the corners of the streets.

John and the rest of his dorm met up in the Entrance Hall with Sarah and Molly and of course Sherlock, whose appearance effectively shut up Molly who had been talking to Greg before. The group proceeded to walk past Filch then, whom they had to show their permission slips signed by their legal guardian and finally, they were allowed to make their way towards the waiting carriages that would take them to Hogsmeade.

As always, the view on the Thestrals was a bit unsettling John did his best to ignore them on the short ride.

Hogsmeade looked picturesque, with its houses covered in snow, enchanted candles floating around and holly wreaths on the doors. Mistletoes were tied to some thresholds and a group of five or six wizards and witches stood on the middle of the main street and sang Christmas carols.

The next two hours were spent in the various shops of the village, starting out at Honeyduke's, where John, Greg and Zack spent a good amount of their money on sweets, purchasing Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans, Sugar Quills, Spindle's Lick'O'Rish Spiders and much more. John did feel a bit uncomfortable about the liquorice-flavoured, spider-looking sweets that actually moved around, just like Chocolate Frogs, but Zack invented a game of stabbing them with the Sugar Quills and it felt enormously satisfying for John to do so. Greg purchased a package of Jelly Slugs and gave them to Sherlock with a grin, resulting in the Slytherin pointedly ignoring Greg for the rest of the day.

After Honeydukes, the now decidedly poorer group stopped at Potage's Cauldron Shop, where Sherlock restocked his supply of experimenting cauldrons – seeing as he went through one or two of the supposedly long-lasting pots in a week - and then the six boys dragged the girls away from a building that read "Madame Puddifoot's Tea Shop", that was decked out in glitter and mistletoes and allowed the view on lots of couples at small tables at the windowfront, holding hands or kissing over cups of tea and coffee. As a counteract to that horrifying (at least in the eyes of the boys!) shop, they went to a pub called The Three Broomsticks, after stopping by the Quidditch supplies store called Spintwitches, where both Greg and John marveled at all the sporting gear for a while.

The Three Broomsticks was crowded, but really welcoming and they managed to get a large table at the back of the room, where they all fit. An order of Butterbeer arrived soon, and the group fell into easy small talk while Sarah and Molly nibbled on some Sugared Butterfly Wings and Alec and Mike talked about the cards of famous wizards they got from a bunch of Chocolate Frogs.

Sherlock was the only one looking really misplaced in the noisy inn and after putting up with being social fro thirty minutes he declared he was off and left the group to do God knew what. It was almost two hours later that John realized Sherlock had been gone for quite some time now and it was close to the time they were supposed to be back at the castle, with everyone getting ready to leave.

"Hey, has anyone seen Sherlock?" he asked, but he was only met with shaking heads. He looked outside the window, where the sun was already setting, despite it being only afternoon, and sighed. "I'll better go look for him."

His friends offered to wait for him, but he declined, seeing as it could take a while to find Sherlock and he didn't want them to wait for too long. With that being decided, the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws left for Hogwarts while John stepped out in the snow that glistened brightly in the sinking sun. He started looking for Sherlock in the stores that might have interested him and when he was not successful there, he peeked into alleys and behind houses, but to no avail.

After about twenty minutes, he had run out of ideas, but that was when he got really lucky.

"That kid had nerves! I don't care how good the students are for the economy here, but if all of them are like that boney kid, I swear I'll jinx all of them," an old witch with an enormous hat told her companion when John walked past them. He stopped in his tracks. Boney kid?

""I know, I know, Andromeda! It's the attitude, that's what's wrong with children nowadays. A good beating, that's all some of them need," the other witch, an even older woman with a hunchback replied.

"Telling Mr. Jenkins from the The Magic Need I was stealing and that he could prove it – me, stealing! Can you believe it?!" The first witch got het up. By now, John was pretty sure they were talking about Sherlock, and despite his reluctance to talk to these two harpies, he took a deep breath, turned around and said: "Excuse me?"

The two witches turned around, eyeing him suspiciously. "Yes?"

"I couldn't help but hear you talking about a boney kid and I… well… I think you could mean my, uhm, brother. Someone jinxed him and now he's running around Hogsmeade, saying really mean things to people. It's not his fault, though! I'm looking for him so our… mum can sort him out." John actually hated having to say that kind of shit instead of just telling the witches off for being so awful, but he figured that the only way they would help him was if he propitiated them.

The first witch, Andromeda, blinked surprised at this and then told him: "Well it's good to see that at least one of your mother's sons turned out a bit decent. Your brother went off to the Shrieking Shack, so you should find him there."

John gave her his best smile and nodded enthusiastically. "Thank you so much, ma'am. Merry Christmas to both of you!"

The other witch flushed a bit pink and mumbled something like 'such a well-mannered young man' while Andromeda just looked at him astonished. John left before they could say anything else, though.

He should've known, really. They had talked about the Shrieking Shack on their way to Hogsmeade, but the girls had not wanted to go there. The boys had agreed quickly, and only Sherlock had been reluctant to do so.

Finding the way to the Shack was not too hard, seeing as there were signs pointing towards it, but it was harder to escape the Professors that were still standing guard at the corners of the street – somehow, John was sure they wouldn't let him wander off alone. It took him a good five minutes to get past Professor Flitwick and he only managed it because he sent a well-aimed Knockback Jinx to the rooftop under which the Professor was standing, and making it collapse so that all the snow gathered on it came down on the small staff member in a slide, momentarily burying under the ice masses.

John then proceeded to slip past and soon, he was on a small path between some trees. When he looked to the ground, he noticed with a smile a single set of footsteps leading towards the Shack, too, and he knew he was on the right track. Sure enough, he was soon greeted with a tall figure standing in the snow, facing the shack, with his back to John, but as soon as the Gryffindor came close enough, Sherlock spoke up. "I tried getting close, but there is some kind of perception charm cast over it. The closer I get, the less I want to go there, until I turn around."

"Hi to you, too." John answered, a bit out of breath from making his way through the snow.

"People don't cast something to keep other people away if they have nothing to hide."

Obviously, Sherlock was not going to let go of the topic, so John quickly revised what the genius had told him and then asked: "Wait, but not even you with your mind and your drive can get past that charm? You're the most stubborn person I know."

Sherlock turned and glared at him and John saw his friend's reddened cheeks and nose and the snow sitting in his hair – Sherlock had obviously been outside for quite a while now. "It has nothing to do with my will! The charm is obviously very strong and can only be broken by the caster."

John lifted his hands, smiling. "Alright, I'm sorry. Hey, how did you know this old witch was stealing groceries, by the way?"

If Sherlock was surprised, he hid it well and, with a small wave of his hands told him: "Oh, that was easy. You could see the outlines of the can of cocoa she steals bi-weekly. She always wears the same cloak and always puts the can in the same place."

John sorted. "Yeees. _Obviously._"

"That's what I just said," Sherlock said irritated, completely obvious to the sarcasm.

The Gryffindor just rolled his eyes and then put his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "Come on, let's go if you're done here. We don't want to be late or our mum will beat some sense into you."

With that, he turned around, starting to walk back through the woods, while Sherlock came after him, calling out: "What? Our mum? Beating me? John?!"

John just grinned and walked on, while Sherlock ran past him, turned around and walked backwards, facing him, a confused and annoyed look on his face. "You're not making sense, John! John?!"

When John still didn't answer, Sherlock fell back again and, in an angry fit, scooped up some snow and threw, hitting John at the back of his head. The Gryffindor spun around and, for a moment, looked like he couldn't believe what had just happened, before a slow, dangerous smile spread on his face. "Oh no you didn't!"

Within minutes, the two boys were bombarding each other with snow, laughing loudly, sweating from the exertion, and faces bright red from the cold and the various loads of snow coming down on them.

From one nail-shut window of the Shrieking Shack, a pair of deep blue narrowed down eyes followed the boys, and an animalistic gnarl sounded through the rooms as the figure in the window watched the young genius and his friend horsing around in the snow.

X

Christmas time came fast then, and John spent his time pleasant as always with his mum, dad and sister – who introduced him to her first girlfriend. Apparently she'd come out to their parents in November and although John felt a bit betrayed that no one told him, he greeted the shy, brown-haired girl named Missy warmly. It didn't really matter to him if his sister liked girls and since their parents were okay with it, too, the holidays were peaceful. Missy seemed to be a good influence on Harry, too, and she hadn't been out partying – or drinking – that much since they got together, something John was really glad about.

Sherlock's Christmas break was considerably less pleasant, although he was kind of fortunate that everyone gushed over Mycroft and his job at the Ministry and Sherlock could just sit in silence for most of the time.

One day between Christmas and New Year's Eve, his father, some uncles and cousins and Mycroft went to London, and despite the fact that he loved the city and really wanted to go, Sherlock had no intentions on putting up with his family and so he faked to be sick – holding two onions under his eyes until they were red and heavy and his nose was running, a bit cheek pinching for colour in the face and a nasal voice – so he could stay at the manor.

He should've known he couldn't trick his mother, though, and about half an hour after everyone had left, she came up to his room. When she stepped in, Sherlock inconspicuously shoved a pile of books over a fresh stain on his new carpet, but didn't pretend to be sick otherwise. He knew his mother knew what he was up to anyways.

"Please, Sherlock, sit down," Cassiopeia asked and gestured to the bed, as if it was _her_ room and _he'd _just come in for a talk.

The younger Holmes just did as he was asked, though, without questioning it.

"You never told me about your stay with the Watson's," his mother started, elegantly sitting down in a chair opposite him.

"I hardly could," Sherlock replied with a small smile. "Are we having a heart-to-heart now? Because I'd rather not."

"Oh, we might as well. You'll survive." She smiled back. "John's mother tells me you two talked about spending the holidays here?" She didn't judge, but just stated it to see what her son would do.

"We didn't talk so much about spending them here, but simply discussed the fact that Muggle and Wizard households differ drastically and that living in a Wizard family must be something worth experiencing when coming from a Muggle family. John expressed the wish to live with Wizards, yes, but we never talked about coming here." Sherlock knew he had to be careful. His mother was not as bad as the rest of his family, and she certainly was more supportive of his acquaintance with John, but that didn't mean her loyalty was lying with him – she was loyal to her husband first of all.

"I don't have to tell you that it would cause immense trouble if he happened to show up here."

"Of course not. He can visit Alec Woodlight, or Zachary Gudgeon. They're both from his dorm and he is on a friendly basis with them."

"Except he wouldn't want to if he had the chance to come here." Cassiopeia raised one eyebrow.

Sherlock had to give her that.

His mother sighed. "Did you think of something already? _When_ he comes?" She didn't say if. She said when.

"No. He's too proud to pretend to be pure-blooded. He would never lie about his family. He just can't come here."

"Good." Cassiopeia nodded and moved to get up and leave her younger son alone again. However, when she saw the questioning look on his face, she settled back and asked: "What is it, love?"

"Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us? You, me, and even Mycroft?"

"In a family like this, caring is not an advantage. Neither is friendship. It's like a great game, like chess, and you and your brother, and maybe even me, we're the queens – powerful, yes, but also the most wanted figure. And if the family is the same colour as you as the queen are, your opponent is conditioned by your actions alone." She stood up and reached out for Sherlock, resting her hand on his cheek briefly.

Sherlock looked up at her and spoke out what he had been thinking at this image. "But there's only one queen of the same colour. We can't all be queens."

Cassiopeia smiled and kissed him on the forehead – a rare gesture, because Sherlock usually didn't let her come close enough and because she wasn't particularly touchy. Today, though, it was one of these rare occasions, and she whispered while still leaning down: "Maybe someone has to leave, then."

After that, she left, and Sherlock was left alone to ponder their little talk.

If his mother was the black queen, at the side of his father as king, then Mycroft would be the white queen, protecting – what? Well, whatever it was, their roles were clear. But if Sherlock was a queen, too, then there was truly a problem, because in Chess, there were only two teams. Maybe his mother was right, someone… him… had to leave, to play their own game. But against whom? And what was Sherlock protecting? Who was his king?

In his mind, a Chess board appeared, with himself hovering in front of somebody, and the opposite side of the board was in the shadows. He could see some figures, though – a squib, a basilisk. His main opponent remained in the shadows for now.

With these rather gloomy thoughts, Sherlock passed his Christmas time and somehow, he felt relieved when he could go back to the Hogwarts Express, where he met an overly excited John (who had gained two pounds over the break, but was lucky his body used it to built muscles instead of fat; who was on a sugar high from all the cookies and sweets he had gotten; who had met someone new he was excited about – short, brown hair, a bit taller than John, close enough to be hugged, but not his girlfriend (that was still Sarah, as far as Sherlock knew) so a partner of one of his family members – his parents' marriage was solid, so no new partner for them, that left Harriet, John probably wouldn't hug a boy, so girlfriend) and already longed for the solitude and peace of his dungeon laboratory. Sherlock was just glad the 'most wonderful time of the year' was over.

X

Somehow, the Boggart lesson seemed to have done some good to Sherlock, and people's attitudes towards him had slightly changed over the term. Now, after the Christmas break, John finally found proof for it to be a permanent change.

Since the Boggart lesson, there had been two times students had approached Sherlock in the hallways and had carefully asked him if he could help them solve the one or the other mystery. And to John's surprise, Sherlock had willingly agreed to it, in an almost friendly manner – well, he didn't blurt out deductions about the clients (that's how he'd called them when he talked about them to John) and had not dismissed them as _entirely_ stupid and unobservant, despite of the fact that the cases were almost too easy for him to solve – one stolen Sneakoscope ("It's not stolen, it rolled under your bed, the House Elves found it and put it in your second-top drawer.") and the suspicion of a boy's girlfriend cheating on him ("She is, but I wouldn't confront her about it, seeing as she is cheating on you with the same person you are cheating on her.").

Now, after the Christmas break, more and more students were coming to Sherlock with different problems and although most of them were too easy to bother with, Sherlock took them all greedily, using every possibility to keep his mind working. In between, he thumbed through book after book with John and they spent quite a large number of evenings on their attempts of becoming Animagi.

The students quickly figured out that Sherlock was easiest to convince to take cases when John was around him and so the Gryffindor was around when Sherlock solved mysteries most of time. Just as on the 31st of March, Sherlock's 14th birthday, and the day Carl Powers died.

Technically, Carl was found the morning of Sherlock's birthday and had died at some point in the night, but nevertheless, it looked like some sort of morbid birthday present.

It was a Saturday, so John was on his way to the Great Hall for breakfast and a visit to Sherlock afterwards to congratulate him – that was the only thing the genius accepted; he wouldn't take any more birthday presents since the Rainbow Glass – and to spent the day with Sherlock, maybe doing some experiments or a stroll over the grounds later, but all plans for the day vanished when he came past the Prefects' bathroom on the fifth floor, where he almost ran into Mycroft.

"Oh, good morning, Mycroft – here to visit Sherlock for his birthday?" John asked, residual sleepiness quickly falling off him at the sight of the older Holmes. He hadn't really counted on Mycroft coming back to Hogwarts for his brother's birthday but on the other hand, he knew basically nothing of the young Ministry wizard's habits.

Mycroft turned to look at him and John noticed the serious look on the older boy's face. "Good morning, John. I fear there has been an emergency that required the Ministry's' presence here."

John looked confused, but just when he was about to ask what was going on, the door to the bathroom opened and another Ministry wizard poked his head out. "Mr. Holmes, your brother has requested the presence of a… _John Watson_, sir!"

"Sherlock's in there?" John asked, looking at Mycroft. "What's going on? Has something happened to him?"

For a moment, Mycroft seemed to contemplate how much he wanted to tell John, but then he sighed deeply and told the other wizard: "Mr. Watson will be inside in a minute." The wizard nodded and disappeared back inside, while Mycroft gestured for John to step away a bit, until they were standing in front of a window, overlooking the grounds that were tinted in a warm morning light. It looked like it was going to be a beautiful day.

Without further ado, Mycroft explained: "Slytherin Prefect Carl Powers has been found dead this morning, in the Prefects' Bathroom. The Ministry was called and I rushed over here, fearing that Sherlock would try to get to the crime scene." He raised one eyebrow. "As you can imagine, I was right and I found him demanding to be let in ten minutes ago."

"And you actually let him in to look at a… dead body?" John wasn't sure what he should be thinking.

Mycroft seemed unfazed, though, and looked at John pointedly. "It is his birthday, after all."

"Yes. Obviously." John put his hands on his hips and shifted on the spot a bit. "And now I'm supposed to go in there, too?"

"Only if you want to."

"You told the other guy I would be in there in a minute."

Now Mycroft smirked. "Because you want to."

John was genuinely annoyed by now. "Don't play mind games with me."

"Oh, I'd never dare."

"Right." With one last look out of the window, John straightened up, squared his shoulders and walked over to the door. "Someone has to look out for you Holmeses." And with that, he walked in.

He'd never been to the Prefects' Bathroom before – duh – and was overwhelmed when he saw the rich marble tiles on the floor, the window with a mosaic mermaid brushing her hair and the enormous swimming pool that used up most of the room and was lined with golden tabs.

At the moment, though, there was no water in it and the whole scenery was less majestic and more… sober, due to the body of a tall student lying on the floor lifeless, with Sherlock crouching down next to it.

John wondered if he should feel more shocked at the sight of a dead person lying on the ground, but he just couldn't bring himself to feel afraid after having encountered much worse things over the last two and a half years. For a brief moment, he wondered if Sherlock had 'screwed him up too badly', how a mean older Gryffindor had nastily remarked a few days earlier when he had overheard Sherlock and him discussing signs of poisoning.

"Ah John, good, you're here – would you please tell that insanely annoying wizard that Carl Powers did not die of a natural cause?" The Slytherin requested, without even looking up from where he examined the bare feet of the deceased.

John slowly made the last few steps over and sat down opposite Sherlock.

"Sherlock, stop – what do you mean, he didn't die of a natural cause? What happened exactly?"

"Mr. Powers was found by the Hufflepuff Prefect this morning, floating face-down in the pool. The staff was alarmed, the deceased was pulled out of the water and the Ministry was called. Mr. Holmes," the Ministry wizard shook his head for a moment before he added "uhm, the older Mr. Holmes, I mean, he allowed his brother to look at Mr. Powers, but the case is clear – Mr. Powers drowned while taking an early morning bath. The portrait of the mermaid saw him having a seizure in the water, which resulted in his drowning." The Ministry wizard was done with his explanation and pointedly ignored the glare Sherlock was sending him.

John turned back to his friend and asked again: "Ok, but why do you think he didn't die of a natural cause? I remember he had some sort of epilepsy or something – he could've had an attack at an unlucky time."

"Because, John-" Sherlock abruptly stood up and combed through his hair with his fingers, "his shoes are missing!" The Slytherin walked over to where a pile of clothes was lying – it was a cloak, trousers and a shirt, completed by a Slytherin cardigan, socks and underwear. There were no shoes.

"His shoes are missing because he was taking a bath – no one takes shoes to the bathroom!" The Ministry wizard replied in a bored voice. "If you must loom around here, please don't try to interfere with the investigation."

Sherlock, composed, indifferent Sherlock, looked like he was close to exploding – John had never seen him like that. Red spots appeared on the Slytherin's cheeks and his eyes narrowed down, while he stood straight so he looked more intimidating than ever.

"I am _interfering_ with your _investigation_? You haven't solved a single case in all your career and the only reason why you've been sent here is because none of your colleagues can stand you and they hoped they could get rid of you if they sent you away with Mycroft – you're repressing the shaking of your hands and your transpiration has increased the two times you spoke to my brother. You are a path-"

"Sherlock, calm down, please!" John interrupted and carefully tugged at his friends' arm, successfully breaking the intense stare of the student.

The Ministry wizard had lived through a change in the colour of his faze from white to bright red and now he cleared his throat. "You might be right, or maybe you're not-"

Sherlock snorted at that.

"-but I am in charge here and all that happened here was an accident. Tragic, yes, but an accident. I would advise you to remove yourself from the scene now."

"Mycroft will-"

"Your brother, despite ranking higher than me, has no power to decide on this – it is ruling of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Division Magical Law Enforcement Patrol of which I am a representative."

Giving the Ministry wizard one last nasty look, Sherlock stormed out the door and past Mycroft, followed by John who ignored the older Holmes as well and hurried to get after his friend.

The rest of the day was spent quiet, since the staff announced the death of Carl Powers and the student body was shocked and grieved for the boy. Because of Sherlock's anger that no-one would listen to him, John didn't even mention his birthday and simply proposed they'd spend the day in the dungeons where Sherlock half-heartedly looked after some mold cultures and rats in different stages of decay, courtesy of Auriga.

John believed Sherlock when he said that Carl Powers had been murdered, but even he couldn't think of something that would make the officials believe, too. As long as they didn't find Powers' shoes or any other evidence, they were forced to sit back.

X

Sherlock stared down at the Rainbow glass with barely contained anger.

He'd never felt that way before in his life – ever since he had been a kid, he'd been told to be quiet, to behave, to hold his tongue. Not that he would talk overly much anyways – he didn't have friends, he stayed with himself and if he chose to talk, it was usually about a topic no one else took interest in.

When there was yet another family gathering, his uncles, great-uncles and everyone else just forced the 'children' to spent time together, because it was seen as the easiest way to keep the bloodline clear, to keep the precious pure-blood children away from the influences of the outer world and – beware! – of befriending those who were deemed unworthy by the large Black-Lestrange-Flint-Holmes family. And unnecessary to say, there were _a lot_ deemed unworthy. However, even for his many cousins, Sherlock had been weird and they called him a psycho when no one was around. Not that he was bothered too much by it, after all, he had more important things to do than to discuss with them.

Obviously, when the grown-ups were around, they would be perfectly friendly and he would be engaging and charming, but under all this façade, he just didn't see the point in it, dreaded it, and couldn't understand why he had to do it. He did understand it was necessary to keep the reputation of the family, but why did he have to talk about the weather, or blood purity, or revolutions of goblins or riots or Quidditch teams when he took absolutely no interest in the topic?

He also got used to people mocking him about his quirks, as they put it – the weird sleep patterns, the way he talked, the way he saw things. He'd always taken pride in standing above all of that, in detaching his mind from everything else, but now he found things hurt him – at least that's what he thought.

There was this sort of pang in his chest whenever someone insulted him. Was this how it felt to be hurt? He'd been hurt physically a thousand times already, he knew how that felt – but emotionally? He'd never been hurt emotionally and frankly, he didn't like that feeling. Also, he'd lost control with the Ministry wizard at the Carl Powers incident. Something inside of him had just grown hotter and hotter and he was pretty sure it had been rage. Hurt, rage. What was next? LOVE?

Everything was topsy-turvy. He could deduce people's emotions by looking at them – true, sometimes, it was hard, because things like a fast pulse could indicate fear, as well as arousal, attraction and whatnot. But usually, judging from the subtext, he knew what was going on. However, with himself, it was harder. He had no basis of comparison. In retrospect, he was pretty sure he had felt fear in the Chamber of Secrets, when John had been dying. But was that really what fear felt like? Screaming in his head, panic, even? Had he been in panic? Panic of going mad? He hadn't been able to form a coherent thought for a moment and that had been the most shocking experience in his life. For moment, his brain had been completely shut down – was that how normal people felt like? Was this considered normal? Because if it was, then he definitely didn't want to feel normal. Then he would gladly stay the _freak_.

But why when John died? Shouldn't one be afraid or in panic when oneself was in danger?

Sherlock started pacing up and down in the empty classroom.

There was absolutely nothing wrong with him.

All these emotions were probably just a side-effect of puberty, really. They would get weaker again, he would be able to ignore them, like usual, and everything would go back to normal.

Except it wouldn't. Because John had a stupid girlfriend who took up all of his time. And it wouldn't get better. The older he got, the more attractive John would be for the other sex – Sherlock could practically see John age in his mind. He'd get broader shoulders, would become muscled. True, he would never be as tall as Sherlock was, but he'd make up for it with a toned body. He'd be the star of the Quidditch team, get good grades, succeed in his O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s, would become a Healer at St. Mungo's and then settle down and marry while Sherlock would have to go on adventures by himself.

Another new feeling. Self-pity.

He shook his head to get rid of the thought. There was no reason for self-pity – he could and would easily do all the things he liked by himself, he'd done it before and he could do it again. Except now he knew what it was to sneak off with John, to have someone he could rely on. Not that he needed it.

He let out a frustrated sigh and his eyes fell on the Rainbow glass again.

A birthday present. John had known him for half a year and had gotten him a birthday present. And Sherlock even liked it. The red lense was broken already, since the Basilisk incident, but he still had the other six lenses. Oh yes, the Basilisk incident. Another moment when he'd done something out of an emotion, out of desperation to save John. He'd broken an extremely valuable glass lense to cut off a Basilisk's head.

He had saved John's life, and Alec's. He'd solved puzzles that didn't even deserve to be called that because they had been so plain obvious, and yet everyone called him names, treated him like a freak and on top of it all, they didn't listen to him!

Carl Powers had been murdered, and everyone chose to ignore that!

Sherlock felt the heat bubble up inside himself again and realized somehow surprised that he was angry, no, raging _again._

He needed to understand, to understand why John couldn't just stop dating Sarah and go back to how they were before - to always being there when Sherlock needed him, he needed to understand why no one listened to him, why they couldn't see that Powers' death was murder, and he needed to understand why his own body betrayed him, flooded his razor-sharp mind with clouds and fog that were emotions.

With a desperate grunt, he yanked out the blue lense – youth, truth, peace, the colour of inspiration and sincerity, of truth and moderation – and tried to look at himself, tried to understand himself. The lense glowed in a soft light, that cast blue shadows on the skin of his hands, arms and face when he looked into a mirror in a corner of the classroom, but it didn't show him anything.

He startled when he saw his reflection, though – his eyes were wide, with small pupils, he looked even paler than usual and his hair was a mess – he'd obviously ran his fingers through it without noticing.

When did he lose control like this?

The blue lense was still glowing softly and it seemed to mock him – it hadn't helped at all and all the anger inside Sherlock broke free and went down on the fragile glass.

Afterwards, he was sitting in the shards of the blue lense, shaking, while he felt like his mind was collapsing.

X

He didn't know how Greg found him. Or how much later it was. He didn't notice how Greg left and came back with John.

It was only when his mind had calmed down a bit that he looked up and found the Gryffindor sitting on the floor with him, giving him worried looks.

"Hey… are you alright?"

Sherlock didn't know. He genuinely didn't know. Was he alright? Was what he had experienced normal? It couldn't be.

"Do you want to talk about what happened?" John rubbed his neck and looked around. "You cut yourself with one of the shards, I patched you up." He fell silent again.

Finally, Sherlock realized he had to say something. Funny enough, now that he had realized it, words seemed to come up his throat like bile and he lifted his head, locked his eyes with John. "I don't know what is happening, John! For the first time in my life, I just don't know. I don't know why everything has to change, and I don't know why I'm afraid. I'm never afraid! My mind is superior to my body – but it just keeps betraying me!"

John looked shocked, but he obviously made an effort to not show it. Sherlock still noticed, but just kept talking. "I don't know why I'm not able to produce a Patronus, I don't know why I'm still no Animagus, and I don't know why I don't know all these things! I can deduce everything, but I just don't see myself right, John!"

"Is that why you broke the lense? You tried to deduce yourself?" John asked softly.

"Even you see things! Even you with your every-day mind can see so WHY CAN'T I?!" Sherlock shouted, and he knew he shouted and he didn't want to but he did.

"Alright- alright calm down Sherlock!" John replied and reached out slowly. Sherlock stared at the small hand. Why did John stay? Why didn't he leave him alone?

"Hey, I know, it all has been a bit much lately, but you are the most remarkable person I know," John then told him, in a soothing voice, while his hand came to rest on Sherlock's shoulder lightly. "You can do things no one else can do, and come the time, you will be able to cast the Patronus. If anyone can make it, you'll be the one to become an Animagus. And you will solve the biggest crimes of our time and people will listen to you."

"But they need to listen now – Carl Powers didn't die in an accident, he was murdered!" Sherlock fought back.

"I know, Sherlock. And I believe you. And someday, others will believe you, too. But right now, everyone is just busy with growing up. And the grown-ups are scared if they see something they don't understand. And you, with your amazing deductions, you scare them, that's why they don't listen. Because they don't understand."

Sherlock looked up. He couldn't believe it, but John was right. You were scared if you didn't understand something. He himself was scared because he didn't understand why his body turned against him, why even his mind went crazy. Did he go crazy? Did he go mad? The thought sent goosebumps down his arms.

"You don't need the Rainbow glass to see yourself. You're dealing so well with everything going on and a little bit of emotion is nothing to be scared off. Try and look at it as if you'd look at it in other persons and file them in your mind palace if that helps you." John still didn't let go of his shoulder.

The Slytherin took a deep breath. John was right. He needed to look at everything from a detached point of view. He needed to get a grip of himself again. And he needed do it soon. He should have known that John would help him see that. John, his conductor.

John seemed to sense he was calming down again and gave him a vague smile. Strangely enough, Sherlock felt like he owed John an explanation and so he told him: "I thought I was going mad."

The Gryffindor smiled broader and nudged him gently. "You're not going mad. It's just puberty, and a lot of new things. With a mind like yours, you can't go mad. In fact, if anyone can make it through all the madness at this school, it's you."

It was obvious that John tried to make him feel better, and although Sherlock wasn't sure how much it helped, he did appreciate the effort. He then allowed John to pull him up and then proceeded to pocket the Rainbow Glass, not looking at the havoc he'd caused in the classroom.

"How about we go and sit outside for a while. I'll keep an eye one you and you can sort out your thoughts?" The Gryffindor offered and Sherlock agreed easily. Going out seemed to be a good idea now – he didn't like sitting in the sun just for the sake of the action, but the walls around him seemed suffocating and the thought of the sky above him was beckoning.

They made their way through the castle, ignoring the looks other students gave them and after a little walk, they lay down in the grass once more, Sherlock closing his eyes and diving into the depths of his mind while John was next to him, calming just through his presence. And for a little while, everything seemed good. Maybe John would go and spend more time with Sarah or some other girls. But right now, he was here. And Sherlock would be damned if he let go that easily.

The soft spring breeze ruffled his hair and carried the smell of grass, the lake, spring and John.

X

After Sherlock's breakdown in May, John kept a close eye on him. He and Greg had a conversation about what happened, but decided not to tell the others – Greg was right when he said that Sherlock probably didn't want to appear vulnerable – or 'human', how Greg's exact words had been – and John agreed on that.

To be honest, seeing Sherlock like that had disturbed John quite a bit – he'd never seen the younger boy so emotional before and although it had been relieving to see that he was actually capable to feel such intense emotions, seeing the fear in his face while he experienced them was not something John forgot easily.

He understood that a certain control over himself was necessary for Sherlock, just as seemingly repetitive actions were important to him – they were too intense and focused for everyone else, but Sherlock seemed to understand and enjoy them. They gave him security when everything inside his mind was racing at a maddening pace.

The mix of experiencing the unknown and out-of-order had obviously triggered Sherlock and John knew that if he wanted to help Sherlock, he'd have to provide as much normalcy as possible. And since normal was boring, to put it in Sherlock's words, _their_ normalcy was experiments, a trip to the lake at night to collect some sort of night-blooming flower (and a short stir when a creature tried to pull them into the lake, but was prevented from doing so by a precisely placed Revulsion Jinx of John) and repeatedly meetings in the library and empty classrooms for their Animagi research.

And of course, as every year at that time, the preparation for the exams.

Despite complaints every quarter hour about the curriculum and the fact he had to learn all those unimportant things about star charts, witch hunts and why Muggles needed electricity, Sherlock sat down with John and the rest of the Gryffindor dorm every day and read through his notes.

"It's not like you take much effort to learn that stuff – you read it once and it's inside your head," Greg complained while he tried to figure out if the dots on his star chart were actual stars or just stains. "Does that look like the Waggoner constellation to you, Alec?" He pushed his chart over to the smaller boy, but before Alec could take a look at it, Sherlock scooped it up, grabbed a quill and roughly sketched something in the chart. "What you have been pointing at is in fact the Twins, or Gemini constellation, with the Waggoner, or Auriga, next to it." As if to support her owner, Auriga, from where she was curled up on Sherlock's lap meowed loudly. She had finally stopped growing – at the size of a small dog – and looked more like a giant throw rug on Sherlock's lap than like an actual cat. "And for your information, it doesn't matter how easy I learn things, what really matters is that I could be doing other things right now and put my mind to a much better use."

"Stop complaining, Sherlock," John interjected, grinning good-naturedly, "just learn about electricity – you like the blender, right? Just learn how it works."

At the mention of the blender, Sherlock's mood got a bit better and he settled back with his notes again, absently petting Auriga.

The most exams turned out pretty well and besides History of Magic, neither John nor Sherlock had problems. Everyone was really excited, though, when the Defence Against the Dark Arts exam came closer – Professor Jones had announced an obstacle course that would take place in evening of the last day of exams, on the grounds near the Whomping Willow.

The students had watched the construction of the obstacle course over the past week and with Sherlock's deductions, John and his friends had a good idea what awaited them. There was a swampy area which most likely held a Grindylow or a Hinkypunk, an area with deep holes in the ground where Red Caps could easily hide, and different other areas, not to forget the edge of the forest nearby.

Friday afternoon, after their Potions exam – a Shrinking Solution that was to be tested on giant mice (Sherlock's and John's shrunk to a normal mouse-size, while Greg's just turned pink and Zack's started to swell up) – all Third Years made their way down to the grounds where Professor Smith was awaiting them.

"Welcome to the Defence Against the Dark Arts exam this year! As you know, we provide you with an obstacle course this year, and you will be sorted into groups of four students to go in there. Your grade will depend on how far you get and how good or bad you defeat whatever is awaiting you in there. If you feel like you're in danger or it gets too much, simply send out red sparks with your wand and I will come and get you. Any questions?"

The students shook their heads and Professor Jones proceeded to read out the teams. John was mildly surprised when he was put in one team with Sherlock, Molly Hooper from Ravenclaw and Jim Moriarty. Honestly, he hadn't counted on him and Sherlock being in the same team but of course he was happy that it went that way. He smiled at Molly – she was a bit pale, but nervously smiled back – and nodded at Moriarty, who didn't look at him but at the ground.

Greg was put in one group with Sarah and Sally Donovan from Hufflepuff, as well as Moran from Slytherin and he winked at John, telling him: "I'll look after Sarah," to which she snorted in a very un-girlish manner and, with her hands on her hips, stated: "I can look after myself perfectly fine."

Soon enough, the first group was sent in and the others settled down in the grass, enjoying the afternoon sun – it was truly the most relaxing exam any of them had to take as of yet. A few professors who surveyed the obstacle course had conjured up picnic blankets and the House Elves had provided food for those who were waiting, and so the students enjoyed a good time while waiting for it to be their turn. It was about six in the evening when Greg's team was called in and John wished them good luck before settling down again.

No red sparks appeared from between the sealed off, barricaded area between the Whomping Willow and the Forbidden Forest, so John assumed his friends were doing fine, and after a while, the next group was called in, a sign that Greg and Sarah had made it out successfully, but since they were obviously not allowed to return to the waiting people, John had no way of asking them how they'd done.

The evening grew later and later and finally it turned out that Sherlock, John, Molly and Jim were the last group waiting to be called to the obstacle course. John thought it was about 8 o'clock when Professor Jones came over, an apologetic smile on her face: "I'm sorry it took so long, but someone started a fire in there – it did help them to complete the task, but it wasn't really aim of the exercise… Anyways, you can go in now. Remember, work as a team, and try to get past everything. Good luck."

The four students marched through the archway that marked the beginning of the obstacle course, Sherlock leading, while the others followed at a more leisurely pace. The soft grass led them a bit downhill, but nothing happened until they arrived at a door that stood in the middle of the ground, no walls to the side, but seemingly locked.

"It's locked," Molly stated the obvious and earned an eye roll from Sherlock.

"We could just go around it. There are no walls, I mean," Jim suggested but before Sherlock could dismiss him, John quickly replied: "I don't think that's going to work – we're obviously supposed to unlock the door."

"The key is in that box – no doubt a trap, though," Sherlock noted and pointed towards a small, wooden box on the ground next to the door.

"I could… I could open it – I'm fast, you know. I'll open the box and run back here?" Molly offered, very pale, but with clenched fists. She tried to look tough and the boys nodded, lifting their wands. She timidly crept closer and closer and tried to lift the lid of the box, but it wouldn't move.

"Try to unlock it," John told her when she looked back helplessly and she blushed and pointed her wand to it, mumbling "Alohomora."

There was a small explosion, everything went dark for a moment, and then Molly shrieked and scrambled away from the box and the door, a look of sheer horror on her face. When the thick black fog suddenly cleared, they all saw what had terrified Molly like that.

A long, pale figure was slowly coming closer; it was a male, with white, empty eyes and sharp fangs from which blood ran over his chin.

"A vampire?!" John called out, his face grim and his wand ready to attack.

But Sherlock stayed oddly relaxed and just grabbed Molly under her arms, pulling her upright – she didn't even realize what he was doing, otherwise she surely would've fainted – the poor girl _really_ crushed on the tall Slytherin. However, he just spun her around, locked her eyes on her and told her with a really calm voice. "It's not a vampire, Molly, it's a Boggart, it's your Boggart, and you can defeat him."

John relaxed just a bit. Now that he thought about it, a vampire would've been really harsh as part of a Third Year exam – not even professional Aurors treated them lightly. Molly, however, couldn't seem to calm down, so John took it up to give orders.

"Jim, get behind him, Sherlock, to his left, Molly, to his right, I'll stay here - Boggarts get confused if they're facing more than one enemy, he won't know what to do!"

Without discussion, Moriarty circled the vampire-Boggart and came to a halt behind him, while Sherlock unceremoniously pushed Molly into a position to the Boggarts' right and stepped a few steps aside until he was standing to his left. The Boggart suddenly stopped in his tracks and turned on the spot, the pale vampire eyes hurrying from one student to the next. Molly was still shaking, but she seemed desperate in her attempt to hold it together and asked with a small voice: "Riddikulus on three?"

Their joined call sounded over the grounds and with a rather unspectacular puff, the Boggart disappeared. Sherlock was the first at the box and retrieved a small key, before unlocking the door.

Following their encounter with the Boggart was a way through the swamp land where John got really distracted by a Hinkypunk that led him right into a mud-filled hole in the ground with its lamp. Unfortunately, the hole was inhabited by a grumpy Grindylow – that somehow looked exactly like the one John and Sherlock had encountered at the lake some time ago, and John could've sworn it was the same, judging by the anger it put into its attack. While Sherlock and Molly dealt with the Hinkypunk, John fought the Grindylow with Jim's help – admittedly, John fought the Grindylow by himself and Jim tried to pull him out of the mud hole, although it somehow seemed like he was pushing him in further rather than pulling him out. Nevertheless, after that unpleasant encounter, the group stayed together more closely as they made their way into the woods a few meters.

"Isn't it kind of shady and unethical to call it the Forbidden Forest and then lead students in there for an exam?" Molly asked half-joking and with a skeptical look towards the tall trees. John laughed and patted her shoulder.

"Kind of, yes. But I'm sure they cleared the area before so nothing can happen – well, aside the obstacle, of course…"

A Red Cap chose that exact moment to jump out of a hole behind Jim, swinging a bludgeon, but it was petrified mid-swing by Sherlock and John, causing the creature to freeze and, due to the weight of the bludgeon, topple over, landing on its back.

"Thanks guys, that was really-" Jim started unnaturally pale in the light of their wands, but they should never find out what he was going to say because something jumped out from between some bushes and tackled down Molly, who went down with a shriek.

For a moment everyone thought this was part of the exam, but in the combined light of three wands, the creature that held down Molly easily with both her arms pinned over her head was not like anything they'd seen before – and yet they knew exactly what, or better who they were facing.

"Interesting," was Sherlock's only comment when he took in the prominent features covered in pale grey hair, the icy light blue eyes and the lips that curled over his fang-like teeth. Not in his wildest dreams John had imagined Fenrir Greyback to look like that, despite having seen photographs, and 'interesting' was definitely not the word he'd used. 'Terrifying', perhaps.

Molly whimpered and Greyback whipped his head around and brought his nose to her exposed neck, sniffing there before licking a stripe upwards, causing Molly to shriek.

"Let her go!" John called out and before he realized what he was doing, he fired three Repulsion Jinxes. They didn't really harm Greyback, but caused enough confusion for him to roll off Molly and crouch on the ground, staring at John from these unnatural blue eyes, grinning amusedly. Sherlock, however, had been present enough and yanked Molly nonchalantly away from Greyback, dragging her over the ground and probably bruising her badly, but right in that moment, John supposed everything was better than being eaten by a werewolf.

"Why are you so hostile? I just wanted to have a little supper before we talked," Greyback stated. His voice was deep and rough, coming from way deep in his chest and he pronounced every _r_ with a little growl.

"We're not talking to you!" John replied, his wand ready and not shaking the slightest bit while the werewolf crept closer.

"Oh, you better do. You see, it's either this, or I'll just kill you all," Greyback told him, sounding almost amused and Molly sobbed loudly.

Sherlock stepped forward, until he stood right next to John and while the Gryffindor didn't like it because it meant Sherlock was closer to Greyback, it was actually a smart move because now they were shielding Molly and Jim. "If we talk to you you'll let Molly and Jim go?"

"Sherlock, we're not talking to him!" John hissed, not daring to look away from the werewolf, but really annoyed.

"If they're fast enough…" The werewolf cocked his head and licked his lips.

"We're not doing this – there'll be teachers here any moment. We're not talking to you!" The Gryffindor stayed hard, while Sherlock tried to talk him out of it, but then Greyback put an end to it by rapidly crossing the small distance between them and yanking Jim, whose eyes widened but who stayed admirably silent, in his grip. Molly scrambled backwards and ran straight into Sherlock, but given the situation, she didn't even flinch or blush at the body contact.

"I'm not patient, the moon is coming out, and I get hungry when I'm waiting… maybe I'll just take a bite while your discussing?" Greyback offered and roughly yanked Jim's head back. A part of John was still in awe how the shy and sometimes whiny Moriarty lived through all of it almost stoically and only his dilated pupils showed fear. He even mumbled a low "You can't do that. You can't!" In a deeper voice than John thought was possible for the small kid – but then again, with puberty going on, it didn't seem important.

Greyback laughed in the back of his throat, a sound that sent shivers down John's spine and even impressed Sherlock, but then the werewolf suddenly sniffed and his eyes narrowed down. "You?-" He pressed his face into Jim's neck roughly and then suddenly pushed the boy away, growling: "Take the girl and run!"

Jim stumbled backwards and Molly glanced helplessly at Sherlock, who, without taking his eyes off Greyback, nodded. "Run, Molly. And call for help as soon as you've put a good distance between you and us."

In her panic, she didn't question and simply followed Sherlock's calm orders.

"I can't believe it…" John muttered as he watched Jim and Molly disappear in the darkness.

"That we're facing Greyback all by ourselves?" Sherlock actually snorted. "It's not so unbelievable if you consider everything we've experienced over the past few years."

A snarl from Greyback prevented John from replying something, though, and the boys watched with wide eyes how he doubled over and snarled again, panting in exertion. "I guess it's too late to talk now, boys," he grunted, staring at them meanly, his head tilted to the side the slightest bit. "Do me the favour and run? It's always more fun to hunt like that." He growled deeply and then arched back, clawing at his chest.

As interesting – from a scientific point of view – the transformation was, John was sure they wouldn't survive long enough to treasure the memory and despite Greyback thought of it as fun, running seemed to be the only smart option. When Sherlock made no move, but had his eyes fixed on the transforming werewolf, John didn't wait long, but simply yanked him around at the sleeve, dragging the Slytherin with him, while running deeper into the woods.

Sherlock cursed, but followed and John refrained from rolling his eyes in favour of finding his way through the nightly forest without running into the next tree.

Behind them, a long-drawn howl ripped apart the night and suddenly Sherlock ran past John, but proceeded to grab his hand in the motion, only to direct him in a wild zigzag through the trees. In the distance, they heard growling that became louder steadily and the sound of heavy paws thumping on the ground came closer, too.

John's breath felt hot in his lungs and although he had a good condition, he began to feel the exertion of the obstacle course, as well as from the concentration to run through a dark forest without hugging a tree.

Out of nothing, a giant oak appeared in front of them, but instead of running around it or slowing down, Sherlock lead them straight to it and John already tugged at his friends' hand and tried to squirm out of the grip when Sherlock turned and hissed "Up!" before pushing himself off the ground, letting go of John's hand and closing his fingers around a thick branch.

John did the same without thinking much, but Sherlock's height was of advantage here and he missed the branch. Sherlock was already on his way further up when John's "wait!" stopped him. He looked down and the Gryffindor hissed: "We have to work as a team here!", with his hand held out. For a split second, Sherlock didn't move, but then he nodded sharply and reached out, closing his fingers around John's wrist. It was not a second too late, because just when John was secure on the first branch and followed Sherlock further up, something heavy collided with the tree and when they looked down, they faced Greyback, in full werewolf form.

The now full moon illuminated his thick, grey fur and the blue eyes still looked the same, although their unnaturalness matched his looks now. He was tall, way taller than a normal wolf, but other than that, he pretty much looked like one. You know, deadly. Lethal.

He couldn't climb the tree, yes, but they couldn't go down, either.

"Any ideas what do to now? Wait for help?" John asked, still panting a bit, but settled securely next to Sherlock on a large branch.

"I've got several ideas, but wait for help is one of the duller ones," Sherlock replied, watching the raging werewolf intently.

"And what do you propose then?"

"We perform the Homomorphus Charm and see what he wanted to talk about."

"Sherlock – we've never performed that spell before and you can't know if it actually works! It's a werewolf, after all." John was definitely not convinced and waiting for help seemed to be the smarter option for him, despite it maybe being 'dull'. If he survived this, 'dull' would be his last problem. On the other hand, Sherlock would not be hold back, so he might as well help him. _God, the things he did._

The Slytherin had obviously waited for John to finish his inner struggle and when he could be sure of John's full attention, he lifted his wand. Their combined call sounded through the woods, their aim perfect and suddenly, the giant wolf started to squirm, yanked his head around, pawed the ground and howled in a mad manner, before he grew larger, the hair went back a bit and human limbs formed, while the snout turned into a more or less human nose.

After a minute, a panting, furious Greyback knelt on the ground but when John realized Sherlock was about to climb down to try and talk to the madman, he realized that Greyback would not talk. He'd use his mouth, yes, but talking was definitely not what he was going to do. So John did the only smart thing to do – he didn't even wait for Greyback to get up, but simply called "STUPEFY", sending a jet of red light right into Greyback's neck, causing the savage to collapse on the ground with a surprised grunt.

X

"I'd like to ask you to refrain from stating 'I can't believe we're dragging Fenrir Greyback through the Forbidden Forest' or something equally ridiculous," Sherlock causally told John while they were, in fact, dragging Fenrir Greyback through the Forbidden Forest.

He was unconscious and tied up with a rope Sherlock had conjured, and both boys were pulling on the werewolf's legs, dragging him over stones and tree trunks – neither of them felt very sorry for him.

John bit back a comment that had waited on the tip of his tongue and just tightened his grip around Greyback's right ankle. They'd sent out sparks a while ago, but no one had shown up as of yet and while Sherlock was heavily protesting against that statement, they were _indeed_ lost – there was no other way to put it – in the Forbidden Forest. With a werewolf. At full moon.

"What do you think he wanted to talk about?" John asked instead.

"Well it's not recipes to spice up your feeding-off-children-diet," Sherlock replied, unusual snarky. It showed John that even Sherlock had no idea, that he was burning to know, but he wouldn't admit that – hence the snark.

"Once we get him back to the teachers, maybe you can ask him. You know, while he is tied up and surveyed," John suggested, knowing that this was only cold comfort to Sherlock, but in the current situation, it was the best he could offer.

Suddenly, a deep groan behind them startled both – John had never seen Sherlock jump and apparently the Slytherin was equally surprised by his own reaction – and they dropped Greyback's legs, turning around swiftly with their wands raised, ready to attack.

Trembles shook Greyback's still unconscious body and in the light of the moon, they saw how his skin stretched, how the already prominent hair grew thicker and became an actual fur, how his bone structure shifted again and then the ropes around his body simply ripped apart from the muscles that expanded on his chest. Both boys quickly made a step back when lashing limbs threatened to hit them and suddenly Greyback's eyes flew open, his pupils only small circles in between all the blue and he rolled onto his legs swiftly, now in full wolf form again.

"It looks like the Homomorphus Charm only works temporarily," Sherlock observed while John tried another Stunning Spell, that didn't even affect Greyback. John knew when it was vain endeavour and instead of trying to jinx the werewolf for longer, he simply set fire to the ground before them, sent out some red sparks again and grabbed Sherlock's sleeve, pulling him along and away from the howling monster.

Their escape was only short, though, because John was suddenly shoved out of the way and collided with a tree trunk, hitting his head and seeing stars for a moment, while the giant shadow of the werewolf leaped right at Sherlock, knocking him off and sending him sliding over the ground.

While John still tried to get up and fight the nausea he felt from hitting his head, Greyback, growled and then crouched down over Sherlock, the scenery accompanied by grunts, yells and groans from the fighting party.

The werewolf was crouching over him, and suddenly Sherlock felt a stinging sensation in his shoulder, while he tried to get rid of the heavy monster on top of him. Somewhere to the side, John was firing jinxes and spells to get Greyback to move away and the analytical part of Sherlock's mind noted how little affected Greyback was by all of that, but the heavy, hot breath against his chest and the throbbing in his shoulder were currently blurring his mind and for an irrational moment, the old fear of going mad came back, while the Slytherin struggled against his attacker.

Something in John clicked when he heard Sherlock scream like that and his attacks became more aggressive, while he desperately though of a way to stop Greyback – he needed a way of getting close to the werewolf without being as vulnerable as he was in his 14-year-old-boy-body. He needed claws, fangs, he needed to be-

John didn't know what happened but one moment, he was raging, firing off spells at Greyback and then jumping, tackling the wolf to the ground and suddenly, his body tingled and he moved closer to the ground, as if he was shrinking. Also, the world was different suddenly, his eyesight almost gone but oh, there was another way of seeing, with his nose. Somehow, everything looked like smells; he could see the trees by smelling them, he could see the ground, covered in leaves, every single leave smelling differently, and of course there was Sherlock, who smelled like the dungeons and soap and mud and sweat and a bit burnt and under everything, a unique note that was simply _Sherlock_. But covering all was the scent of blood and the earthy, musky scent of the werewolf.

With some shock, John realized that he'd turned into an animal, that all their hard work in becoming an Animagus had paid off, he'd managed it, he'd turned when he needed it the most and now he apparently was some sort of bloody _dog_.

Funny enough, although he was shocked, it wasn't exactly overwhelming and he realized what Professor McGonagall had meant when she said you weren't very emotional in your Animal form. The indifference of the dog made it easy for John to concentrate and although Greyback, as a fully transformed werewolf, would usually ignore animals in favour of humans, John's furious attack had aggravated him and he bounced forward with a snarl.

Reflexively, John jumped in between Sherlock and the attacking werewolf and bared his teeth, growling too, before Greyback hit him and they rolled over the ground in a pile of fur, limbs and snapping teeth.

One paw of Greyback hit John in the face and a high-pitched yowl sounded through the trees. John felt something warm trickling down his snout and realized he was bleeding and, in a counter-attack, he trapped Greyback's right hindleg between his jaws, tasting blood and fur, but even when the werewolf tried to shake him off while growling ferociously, but John held him in a vicelike grip.

Finally, Greyback shook his leg so hard John was thrown through the air and collided with a tree, but he sprang to his feet again instantly, before Greyback could reach Sherlock, who was in the process of climbing another tree. The Slytherin's whole shirt was covered in blood and it's metal smell stung in John's dog nose, but from the way his friend moved, he couldn't be hurt too badly and obviously a lot of blood came from Greyback. Speaking off, John raced over to where Greyback snapped at Sherlock and aimed for the werewolf's neck, but only caught his shoulder. It was enough to busy Greyback, though and for an endless while, the too canines rolled over the ground in a desperate fight, where John's attacks weren't exactly ferocious and didn't hurt Greyback much, but on the other hand, the werewolf didn't catch John, who was smaller and therefore more agile.

And all of the sudden, the fight was over – John's dog ears could easily hear the great amount of wizards and witches coming towards them at a rapid pace, and Greyback, whose ear was currently being ripped to shreds by John, growled one last time before turning around on the spot and fleeing into the woods, a great deal slower than before and limping heavily, leaving a trail of blood behind.

John turned back to the tree on which Sherlock was sitting and he stared up to the Gryffindor as if to say 'Come down, it's safe now.' The really ridiculous part, though, was that he could actually feel that he was wagging his tail.

X

John and Sherlock made their way through the castle after a long day of being inquired about the happenings during the obstacle course the night before.

A horde of teachers had arrived shortly after John in his dog-form had managed to defeat Greyback and Professor McGonagall had turned him back into his human self, using the Homomorphus Charm, immediately after recognizing who he was. Within half an hour, there were Ministry wizards all over the Forest and with the combined effort of five or six Aurors, Greyback, who'd left a trail of blood from when John had managed to sink his teeth into the werewolf's side, was caught.

After giving a quick statement, Sherlock and John were allowed to return to the castle and their respective dorm rooms – accompanied by Professor Slughorn and Professor Jones, so there had been no chance of talking to each other then. Professor Jones had congratulated John on 'surviving the stupidest thing she'd ever heard of because chasing a werewolf was apparently even more stupid than going after a Dementor all by yourself if you were a Third Year', but at least she smiled at him, so he didn't feel too bad about the whole thing.

However, the whole next day was spent with giving statements to the Ministry and, in John's case, a registration of his Animagus form. Two grey, bored looking wizards from the "Animagus Registry, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Ministry of Magic", how they introduced themselves, wrote down data on his person and his wand and then they asked him to transform into his Animagus form.

At first John wasn't sure if he would be able to do it again – both he and Sherlock had been reading on that topic for a lengthy time, but when they'd tried to transform before it hadn't worked.

"Concentrate on what you want, Watson," Professor McGonagall, who was allowed in the room since she was Headmistress, advised, obviously sensing John's insecurity.

The Gryffindor took a deep breath and concentrated. He imagined how he would shrink and how fur would grow everywhere, he wanted to transform, he wanted to transform, he wanted to-

Suddenly the world around him grew bigger, and within seconds, he had successfully turned into an animal once more. Professor McGonagall had the presence of mind to conjure up a mirror and so, for the first time, John could see himself.

It was a bit shocking to see his own reflection – only that it wasn't his own reflection, but the reflection of an animal staring back. While John had known he'd turned in some sort of dog, it was only now that he saw what he looked like. He was about knee-high, with patches of darker brown fur around the eyes, ears and shoulders, while the rest of his fur was a light sand colour. Another patch of dark fur ran down his chest from below his chin. The dog in the mirror cocked his head when John did, and stared back from dark blue eyes.

Slowly, realization hit John and when his brain accepted the fact that the dog was him and he was the dog, he flopped down on his hindlegs and looked a bit overwhelmed – which basically meant his tongue peeked out from between his jaws at the side, making him look equally confused and adorable.

_God, had he really just described himself as adorable?_

"Male Australian Shepherd/Golden Retriever mix, identifying mark: scar in the left shoulder," one if the Ministry wizards droned while the other scribbled it down on parchment.

"You may change back now," John was told and this time, it wasn't hard for him to do. He simply concentrated on what he wanted and felt how his body shifted again. It wasn't as unpleasant as when Professor McGonagall had used the Homomorphus Charm, but he had to look away from the mirror because he felt sick watching his own head lengthen, fur disappearing and his bones stretching again.

After the successful back-transformation, he was asked what seemed to be hundreds of questions, ranging from simple health questions such as "Are you allergic to the hair of the animal you turn into?" to questions that were obviously designed to look at his morality – "The animal you turn into is considered to be 'loyal, attentive, vigorous, able to work hard and all day, flexible yet muscular and agile' – on a scale from 1 to 10, how correct do you think represents that your personality?"

Admittedly, John had a Sherlock-esque moment then, seeing as his animal form, as per definition "is not chosen by the wizard, but determined by their personality and inner traits" and therefore he obviously had to be a 10 on that scale, but he stayed friendly and answered everything patiently.

And finally, it was afternoon already, the interrogation was over and John and Sherlock were excused and allowed to leave - which now led to the two boys walking through the castle, with directions of the dungeons.

John had watched Sherlock for quite some time now and finally, when they were in the peacefulness of the dungeons, he sighed and spoke up, voicing what had been nagging in the back of his head every since the night before and the fight with Greyback. "Now, care to tell me what's wrong with you?"

Sherlock stopped mid-track and looked at John in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

The Gryffindor was not having any of it. "Cut the crap, Sherlock. You told me to observe, and I did – there was way too much blood on your clothes for it to be from Greyback, and I saw him bent over you before I managed to scare him away. So tell me what's wrong."

The Slytherin's features hardened and he straightened his back, towering above the smaller Gryffindor, eyes narrowed down. "Don't be dull, John. If you've been that observant, you know just what is going on."

John swallowed. He'd had his suspicion, but only now that they were alone and he could think properly, without worrying about Ministry of Magic-things and wizards inquiring him, he found that the worst case scenario had apparently turned out to be true. "He bit you?"

The silence spoke for itself. Without caring for Sherlock's protests, John quickly reached up and undid two or three buttons of his friend's shirt, yanking it away to reveal a bite mark, barely healed and looking infected. "You clot – you should've told someone – Madame Pomfrey, or Professor McGonagall or Mycroft or me- it's probably infected-"

Sherlock's slender fingers closed around John's hands in a deadly grip, ice cold digits sending gooseflesh up John's arms. "We cannot tell anybody, do you understand me?!"

"But-"

"What do you think will happen if someone realizes I've been bitten by a werewolf? Society is not fond of me, and they're not any fonder of werewolves. Which leaves me to being the single most undesirable person to be around in the whole country." Sherlock said that in a calm voice, but John just couldn't stay that calm. Thoughts were racing through his mind and he didn't realize that his breathing had become more erratic. When he did, though, he willed his heart rate to slow down and his mind to function normally again.

Sherlock was right – he couldn't tell the authorities. If he did, he would probably be taken out of the school, away from everyone. And from what John gathered about the Slytherin's family, they wouldn't be very accepting of their werewolf son – no wizard would be, for that matter.

"At least, uhm-" John started, then shook his head and cleared his throat, trying again, "at least let me clean that wound, alright?"

Sherlock gave in without making a fuss about it and slid into an empty classroom, sitting down on a table while John moved to stand in front of him and inspected the gashes in Sherlock's shoulder carefully.

"I'm going to give you something in case it really is infected – I think a bit of crushed Bezoar should do it…"

The Gryffindor went through a supplies cabinet and came back with a grey powder, which he carefully applied to the marks on Sherlock's shoulder, watching how the reddish tint around the edges of the broken skin normalized a bit. All the time, Sherlock's face remained clear of any emotions, he simply stared at the opposite wall while John tended to his bite.

"Now, sit still-" John lifted his wand and closed his eyes. He had never actually tried that spell before, but he read all about it and had seen Madame Pomfrey use it quite a lot of times. _"Vulnera Sanentur."_

Under John's careful watch, the deep bite marks started to close themselves and he quickly picked up some dittany which he had placed on the table earlier. Applying it to the wound, he explained: "It's to avoid scarring. You should take some with you and apply it tomorrow morning, too."

Sherlock almost certainly knew what Dittany was used for, but for once, he didn't tell John off for 'stating the obvious' or something else and simply nodded, inspecting his shoulder that now looked almost normal again, with only faint red marks visible on pale skin. Then, he moved to button up his shirt again.

"You do realize that the spell you used is not taught at Hogwarts? It's considered to be too difficult for students to learn." Sherlock cocked his head a bit and John gave him a small smile – this was Sherlock's way of expressing his admiration for John's work, and to be honest, John was quite proud of himself for managing this complicated Healing spell. For a moment, they looked at each other in content silence until something occurred to John.

"Are you going to, you know, transform at the next full moon?" His stomach tied itself into a tight knot at the thought and Sherlock did nothing to make him feel any better.

"Obviously. Saliva-blood contact has been made, so there's a 93% chance that I'm infected. Remarkable as I am, I don't think I hold the anti-bodies to lycanthropy in my blood." He looked indifferent.

"How can you be so calm about this?" John inquired, and realized that his voice was raised, something he didn't intended on, but he couldn't help it – the thought of realizing one had been infected with a terrible illness disturbed him and yet Sherlock looked indifferent to it, as if it was merely an interesting scientific happening.

"Will getting worked up about it help me in any way?" Sherlock inquired, voice like steel and eyes drilling themselves into John's.

"No, but-"

"Then I refuse to do so. Now, I would really appreciate it if you would calm down and listen to me, because I have a plan and I will need you."

John's mouth shut and he took a deep breath, closing his eyes. When he opened them again, he had calmed down a bit and looked at Sherlock grimly. "What do you need me to do?"

"While I am without doubt the better potioneer, your skills regarding Healing Spells and Potions are better-" Sherlock ignored the smug look on John's face, "and that's why I want you to brew a Wolfsbane Potion for me."

"Ah- no?!" John instantly shook his head and looked at Sherlock as if he was insane. "You can absolutely not make me- I mean, I want to help you, but do you know what could go wrong?"

Sherlock looked annoyed. "I just complimented you on your healing skills, you should accept it and then do what I requested."

"That's not how it works! You can't just… smother me with a compliment and then expect me to do something insane!"

"How is this insane? The only thing that provides ease of lycanthropy symptoms is the Wolfsbane Potion – I need it!"

John combed through his hair in an exasperated motion. "I could _kill_ you, Sherlock! I know you need that potion, but I'm not going to be the one to make it – you need Aconite for it and that's lethal! I could poison you!"

It was obvious that John felt more than a bit reluctant to do as Sherlock had requested, so the Slytherin rolled his eyes, hopped off the table and grabbed John's arms, pressing his own forehead against the Gryffindors. "In this whole school, there is no one I'd trust with this besides you." He didn't mention that he didn't exactly have a choice, since it was important that John did this. "Even the Professors say you are a remarkable wizard and if there's anyone qualified to brew a Wolfsbane Potion, it's definitely you." John didn't flinch away, but Sherlock felt that he wasn't entirely convinced yet. What was so important to John that he would agree to this? What was more important to him than his dull worries about poisoning Sherlock? And then Sherlock knew. "John, you're my friend. I know you can do it, so help me - I'm asking you as my friend."

At this words, the reluctance in John's eyes disappeared and Sherlock knew he would get what he needed. He tried not to look to smug when John nodded, carefully prying himself free of Sherlock's grip. "Fine. I'll do it. I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'll do it."

Sherlock's eyes glistened in excitement. "Great. I'll get the ingredients and we can go to the Forbidden Forest tomorrow afternoon to collect Aconite."

"It's not like we almost died yesterday, no, we can definitely take a walk in the bloody Forbidden Forest with its giant three-headed dogs and spiders to collect flowers tomorrow," John muttered.

"You know as well as I that if Slughorn realizes the ingredients for Wolfsbane Potion go missing, there is a chance they will inquire us and I can't risk that."

John raised his hands in surrender. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm not saying anything. Collecting flowers in the Forbidden Forest - _yay_!"

Sherlock gave him a look with raised eyebrows and then paced the classroom for a bit.

"What else is it?"

"Oh, just one tiny problem, nothing major." Sherlock waved his hand dismissively.

"I'm waiting?" John tapped his foot.

"The next full moon is in July, when I'll be at Holmes Manor again."

"Oh."

"No need to 'oh', John – we will simply have to find a way for you to be there to survey my transformation and watch me – you will not be in danger because if you change into your dog-form, I will not attack you if something goes wrong, which it shouldn't since I have absolute trust in your capability of brewing the Wolfsbane Potion." Sherlock looked content and John decided that this was all too much to worry about – at first, they would go and collect Aconite, then he would worry about the potion and then he would worry about the face that he would somehow have to spend the second week of his holidays at the mysterious Holmes Manor with Sherlock, who was a werewolf, Mycroft, who was just weird, and the rest of the Holmes family he knew nothing of but had the feeling he was better off not knowing them.

"Ah, this is terrific!" Sherlock announced and actually jumped once, excitedly.

And all John could do was shake his head at his friends' antics, but he smiled – if one person on the planet would be excited about being a werewolf, it was definitely Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

_The colour blue is also connected to the Throat Chakra and that deals with communication of how we feel and what we think; that's why Sherlock tries to use it to understand himself._


	11. Interlude: Summer Break 3

On the whole train ride back, Sherlock was especially silent. John knew he was pondering a lot of things; certainly his condition and obviously a way of making it possible for John to stay with him during his first transformation.

What John didn't know was that Sherlock was also working on something that bugged him for quite some time now.

Moriarty, when being questioned about not getting help, told the teachers and Ministry wizards (and therefore Mycroft and therefore Sherlock) that Molly had tripped and fell unconscious. He'd lost his wand in the hurry of fleeing from Greyback and wasn't able to produce sparks with Molly's wand. True, Moriarty's wand wasn't found and Molly did fall unconscious – she was almost hysterical afterwards – but while the Ministry and teachers readily believed that explanation, Sherlock felt like something was odd. When Sherlock had been lured down the trapdoor, Moriarty had been involved. And now with Greyback, Moriarty had messed up again, not to mention the strange comment, almost like recognition, when Greyback had grabbed the younger boy. Admittedly, Sherlock couldn't prove it, but he also suspected involvement in the Chamber of Secrets happenings – someone had to know about Sherlock, for both, everything that went down in the Chamber, as well as with the squib, and that this someone came from Sherlock's dorm was very likely.

But there were no clues, nothing whatsoever that provided a hint for Sherlock's thoughts, so he had to concentrate on more obvious matters for the moment. Namely, him being a werewolf.

His gashes didn't hurt anymore and there were no remaining scars, thanks to John's care, but there were more side-effects to Lycanthropy than just changing into a monster once a month. Sometimes, he felt feverish, other times, searing headaches bothered him and he felt actual anger bubble up more easily now. He, Sherlock, who was so much in control all the time, was suddenly raging at the smallest things. He never showed it, obviously, but it was unsettling that the sickness was actually influencing his body.

When they reached King's Cross he disappeared from the train quickly, only giving John, who nodded in understanding, a pointed look and made his way over to his mother. She had been informed of their encounter with Greyback, just like John's parents had been informed of their son being an Animagus now, but seeing as Sherlock didn't talk to Mycroft about the whole Greyback thing, she knew he wouldn't talk to her about it either. However, being intelligent as she was, she almost instantly knew her son was pondering something and when they arrived back at the manor, she took him to the side.

"You look different." Her eyes drilled themselves into Sherlock's and everyone could see where the young Holmes got his stare from.

"You'd expect so after being attacked by a werewolf," Sherlock treaded water carefully. He didn't know what his mother was up to and while he was pretty sure he was hiding his infection well, there was still a slight chance she might realize what was going on.

"I've never seen you at unease except that one time when you were forced to dance with your Aunt Regina when you were five. Is this still the John-Watson thing bothering you?"

Sherlock was somehow glad that his mother thought that it was just John's impending stay – because that's what it was_, impending_. John _had_ to come. The question was the _how_. Relieved she hadn't noticed the sickness, he replied: "Yes. I imagine one or two weeks would be sufficient in the social protocol."

Cassiopeia thought about it for a moment. "I understand. Did you think of a date already?"

"Next week," came Sherlock's rapid answer. Next Friday would be the day before the full moon.

"Well, then. We talked about the risks. You know them. But I agree that having John here will be an interesting experience." Sherlock's mother looked canny. "I'll have Mycroft arrange the Floo Network. It was about time the Watson's fireplace was connected, anyways – they have a wizard in the family, after all, and meeting up with John's mother in crowded Muggle cafés is rather tedious…"

Any other kid would've jumped up and down in excitement at the prospect of having a two-weeks-lasting sleep-over, but Sherlock of course did nothing of that sort and simply lowered his head. He wasn't sure what his mother gained from meeting with Mary Watson, but he didn't really care, either. In his mind, the plans of the where and how of the first full moon were already running.

"One last thing – I take it you have thought about what we will tell the family?" Cassiopeia looked expectant and now the devilish glint appeared in Sherlock's eyes. _That was the fun part._

X

One week later, all close and distant relatives had been informed that Sherlock had come down with a nasty outbreak of Dragon Pox – highly contagious and fatal if you caught it in adulthood – and all planned stays were cancelled. It took Cassiopeia the whole morning to organize it. Sherlock's father had been convinced that having John over was necessary because both, he and Sherlock, needed to recover from the trauma they had ever since they faced Greyback all by themselves together, and although it was obvious that Mr. Holmes didn't believe a bit of the story – Sherlock having a trauma? – he had decided to play along, knowing that his wife had her reasons for everything she did. He just assumed it was necessary and as long as none of the family members discovered that John – a Mudblood – stayed with them, he accepted his fate.

And so John did his first travel by Floo Powder in the morning of Friday, one week after they'd come back from Hogwarts.

John supposed he had to be thankful that Sherlock had informed him about their plans this time around, although he hadn't phoned but simply sent a letter with Athena (whom Sherlock had taken with him, no matter how much John protested, seeing as it was _his_ owl) explaining the details.

At first, John's parents had been a bit reluctant – but mainly because they were still chewing on the fact that their son had apparently faced a dangerous murderer (who also was a werewolf) all by himself, without any adult around and was now able to transform into a dog.

When he changed in front of them for the first time, their eyes almost popped out of their sockets and Harry squealed a bit, but they didn't freak out too much – after one summer with Sherlock and a son who was a wizard, seeing a human turn into a dog was apparently not as big of a deal as it could have been. Harry even petted John reluctantly, but slapped him slightly when he attempted to lick her face.

One night, John's father had come into his son's room and had asked him to tell the story of the night with Greyback with all the details and after John did, he smiled proudly and patted his son on the back, praising is courage and behaviour in that situation – John was smiling, too, and at that moment, he felt closer to his father than ever before.

So, after some serious talk to John – "Don't turn into a dog in front of Sherlock's parents!", "Are you sure you want to go there – they don't have electricity!" and so on – his parents finally let him go and after Sherlock appeared in their fireplace, thrust some Floo Powder in John's hand and told him to say "Holmes Manor" clearly and loudly, John said his goodbye and, with a madly thumping heart, proceeded to step into the fire and announce his destination. The flames weren't hot, just a comfortable warm tickle and the last thought before he vanished was that he would finally meet Sherlock's strange parents and stay with them in one house. For two weeks.

X

John, in retrospect, wasn't sure what he had expected, but now he felt stupid for not keeping in mind that Sherlock and Mycroft had parents and did inherit their character traits, or well, at least some of them, from their mother or father. In the case of the Holmes siblings, it was definitely their mother.

Cassiopeia Holmes was an elegant, beautiful woman, who looked ageless despite being around the same age as John's mother, and she was always dressed impeccably in long dresses and expensive jewelry. The one time he'd seen her, at Platform 9 ¾ , he didn't get a good look, but now that he had time, John realized how much like a painting she looked, flawless and gentle in movements. Her eyes, however, were a sharp contrast to her soft features – they were an exact replica of Sherlock's and when Cassiopeia looked John over for the first time, he squared his shoulders instantly and tried to keep his face neutral. It was clear that Sherlock was taking after her, but when she finally smiled and offered John a kiss on the cheek, he understood why his mother liked Mrs. Holmes – like Mycroft, she could be perfectly friendly and polite, quite charming and amicably and this was obviously where Sherlock stopped taking after her.

John had half expected for the whole extended family to show up at the Manor at some point, at least from what Sherlock told him from his past holidays, but the only Holmeses John got to see were Sherlock, Sherlock's mum and occasionally Mycroft and – even rarer – Mr. Holmes. On the few occasions John spent time with Richard Holmes in one room, he always felt a bit intimidated by the rather silent, tall man, but at least there was no discomfort in their meetings – Sherlock's father seemed to keep a cool distance and ignored John's presence for most of the time and John never spent too much time in one room with him because Sherlock seemed to dislike shared meals with the rest of his family anyways.

Another mystery that John solved for himself (and was quite proud of) was the fact that he got to know why Sherlock left everything lying around if he had the chance – no matter if it was after experiments or after days spent in the library, Sherlock simply left as if he expected the mess he'd made to magically disappear. It turned out that the mess did disappear, at least in Holmes Manor, thanks to the help of a House Elf called Smooch. John had to suppress a snort at the name of the Elf and did his best to stay friendly and not insult him by laughing out loud, but the revelation that Sherlock simply was used to someone cleaning up behind him struck deep. On a second thought, John wondered if Sherlock expected him to clean up after him at Hogwarts and put him on one level with a House Elf – the thought made him grumpy for a whole evening.

The Manor itself was astonishing, with fields stretched out all around it – wonderful for Quidditch practice – and impressive interior design on the inside. There were several bedrooms, a library, a dining room with a table probably large enough to fit the whole Slytherin House there and various other rooms John didn't even enter.

They spent the days exploring the house (which Sherlock even enjoyed since he got to look at it from the point of a Muggle born who'd never been to a wizard household before), doing experiments, walking around the grounds surrounding the house and even – after hours of pleading and convincing of John – practicing Quidditch. The closer the full moon crept, though, the antsier both boys got and while Sherlock had taken his daily dose of Wolfsbane Potion regularly, their nerves went wild at the prospect of what was coming.

Luckily, no one really cared if Sherlock locked his room and so they went upstairs in the afternoon of the full moon, locked themselves in and waited. Sherlock nervously paced up and down, the only sign of his distress, while John tried to stay calm and sat down at the desk, his wand next to him.

They were obviously not allowed to use magic outside of school, but if he had to in order to prevent Sherlock from killing him, going mad or anything worse, he would not hesitate to make use of his wand. The Animagus transformation didn't count as using magic per se, since you didn't use your wand or made an utterance, so he could always use his dog form, too, if he had to.

The afternoon turned into evening and Sherlock gave some last instructions, including 'Watch me closely, John – every detail might be important later!' and 'If I go wild and attack someone of my family, make sure it's Mycroft' (which John refused to swear).

"Are you sure the Wolfsbane Potion worked? Do you feel calm?" John tried not to be hysteric, but ever since night fell and the moon started to rise, he got more and more edgy.

"I should think so – we are going to find out now, anyways," Sherlock replied and nodded towards the glass of the window. A few clouds just moved away on the sky and like a laser, light beams of the full moon fell through the window and illuminated Sherlock's face and curls. "I think it's starting-" The Slytherin took a shuddering breath and his eyes shut for a moment, before they shot wide open again, the pale grey gone and replaced by a rich yellow colour, while his pupils dilated a great deal.

John immediately rushed over and tried to steady his friend, but Sherlock whipped his head around and reached out to keep John away – only that the boy had gained a lot of strength within seconds and his easy push sent John straight through the room until he collided with a wall.

While the Gryffindor was still getting back on his feet, Sherlock used all concentration he had to hold back the screams forming in the back of his throat, while his trembling body bent down and stretched. His bones were on fire and twisted and creaked in painful ways, his skin itched while hair started to grow rapidly everywhere. He could feel the deformation of his face and with a small whimper, he fell to his knees – only that his legs had changed, just like his arms, and he landed on four paws – and with a scary finality, the ache in his body stopped altogether and left him with an overflow of senses.

Even with his eyes closed, he could somehow see the room by identifying all the different smells easily. The most heavy smell of course was John and the sheer sensation of a warm body with him, combined with the sound of the Gryffindor's thrumming heartbeat overloaded Sherlock's brain for a moment and the instinct of whipping around, tackling the human and sinking his teeth into him became overpowering, but as soon as the thought was in his mind, it was gone again and Sherlock was calm. A part of his brain realized that the Wolfsbane Potion had indeed worked the way it should and now he didn't feel much different to usually.

He could still think the same way he usually did and frankly, he didn't care if he was standing on two feet or four paws. His body was just transport, no matter how it looked. From a scientific point of view, the heightened senses were useful, though, and he tried to file all the different smells while he could.

The calm call of "Sherlock?" startled him out of his scientific bliss, though, and it was only now that he realized he hadn't even opened his eyes yet. However, when he did, it was not too spectacular – much like dog's eyes, werewolf eyes were apparently pretty bad – although they were enough to make out John slowly stepping closer.

Another thing Sherlock found himself able to do was understand human speech, and somehow, he was glad for that – the only thing that bothered him was his apparent lack of speech, when he tried to articulate a dismissive "John!" and ended up sounding like he was being throttled.

John stopped in his tracks, though, when he heard the sound and watched the werewolf from narrowed eyes, but Sherlock realized he had to make clear he was not a mindless beast and sat down on his hindlegs, looking at John in a way that he supposed was collected and friendly. Well, for a werewolf.

"You can understand me, right?" John asked, still careful and keeping his distance. "How about you paw on the floor once for yes and twice for no?"

Sherlock suppressed a sigh, but obediently pawed at the floor once.

A relieved look appeared on John's face and he quickly came closer, bending down a bit – it was almost unnecessary, though, because even as a werewolf, Sherlock was almost as tall as he was as a human and therefore he was almost on eyelevel with John when he was sitting on the floor. "No urge to rip me to shreds then?" John joked and Sherlock pawed the floor twice although a part of him wanted to just the opposite because John was being dull and stating obvious things.

X

For a little while, Sherlock seemed content with examining his new exterior, and he sat in front of the mirror for a good while, trying to see every inch of his transformed body.

His fur was dark and glossy, no comparison to Greyback's, and his eyes were rendered yellow now, a sharp contrast to their usual pale grayish green. It was hilarious to see how the Slytherin was captured by his own tufted tail and chased after it a few rounds before obviously realizing what he was doing and sitting down abruptly and glancing towards John, who didn't try to hide that he'd seen it. Sherlock looked miserably then, and humiliation was apparent even on his wolf features.

John laughed, but tried to sooth his friend by telling him: "No worries, you wouldn't believe how many times I did that when I turned into a dog for practice."

Even as a werewolf, Sherlock managed to look snotty and gave John a look that said _'Maybe that's normal for you, but I'm far more superior to that'_.

"Oi, don't give me that look. If you're done chasing your tail, just curl up or something," John suggested, glaring at Sherlock, but without really being hurt.

Sherlock, however, didn't seem convinced of that and cocked his head, the yellow eyes narrowing down. He looked past John and towards the door.

"Oh no. No, Sherlock- no!" John quickly got up from his seat while the werewolf slowly crept closer, watching the human carefully, but with a playful glint in his eyes, his prosoma lowered a bit and the tail trailing behind him, swiping over the floor. John positioned himself in front of the door now, but Sherlock made no move of slowing down.

"You can't go out there – if someone sees you, we're busted, you said so yourself! We're staying right in here, you're going to lie down on that carpet an-"

Sherlock took the chance to a make a sudden attack forwards, trying to get past the Gryffindor in the door, but John wouldn't let him, changed into his dogform rapidly and bared his teeth while his ears were flattened and his body was tense.

A low growl formed in his throat, but he kept it down in fear of waking the whole house, while Sherlock stopped right in his tracks. Yellow eyes met blue ones and they stayed fixed on each other while the werewolf tried to pull out to the left and right a few times, but was always stopped by John, who simply paced in front of the door, paws clicking softly on the hardwood floor.

After a while, Sherlock obviously got bored with this game and started snapping at John, resulting in them wrestling on the floor for quite some time. (In the morning, back in his human form, Sherlock would tell John that it was simply to test out the limits of his werewolf form, but John had the suspicious Sherlock had actually enjoyed himself.) By the time the moon set, John was fast asleep on Sherlock's bed, stretched out comfortably across the bed cover, while the werewolf was resting orthogonally to John at the end of the bed, his snout poking over one edge of the bed while his tail swayed in the air on the other side. They slept through the backformation and Sherlock's exhausted mind mostly ignored the pain that came with the change back into his human body. At some point, John woke up, threw a blanket over Sherlock and went right back to sleep, while the sun slowly rose over Holmes Manor.


	12. Time of Doom - Part I: Fourth Year

_This gets a bit angsty, and there are references to drug abuse. Not much, but still. Please be careful if that triggers you._

* * *

As usual, John found Sherlock sitting in a compartment all by himself at the journey back to Hogwarts on the first of September, but before he could even sit down properly, the door of the compartment flew open again and Sarah stormed in, looking really pissed off.

John had expected something was wrong and in hindsight he probably should have started to wonder when he got no letters from her but the first one shortly before he left for Holmes Manor, but now it was too late.

"I can't believe I even have to say this, but if you don't have time to talk to me anymore, you can just leave me alone!" she told him without wasting time.

"Uhm - I'm sorry, I-" John started, not sure about how to respond to that but trying to cut his losses, but Sarah was having none of it.

"You should be sorry, but frankly, I don't care - I want someone reliable, someone who cares about me and doesn't spend more time with his friend than his girlfriend!"

She sounded extremely grown-up saying that, but seeing as she was only 15, it was a bit ridiculous to say. She didn't seem to think so, though, and with an impressive whipping motion, she threw back her head and marched out, closing the door soundly.

"That was predictable," Sherlock noted and John sent him an annoyed look before flopping down in a seat, trying to make sense out of what had happened. Sure, he hadn't spend much time thinking about (or communicating with) Sarah and when they did something back at Hogwarts it was usually interrupted by Sherlock, but nevertheless, her sudden change of mind appeared strange to John. He tried to remember how Harriet had been when she was 15 and found similar patterns, so maybe it was just a girl's thing to... freak out and be demanding and whatnot? Either way, his pride was hurt quite a bit and he spent the majority of the train ride sulking while Sherlock, unfazed or maybe even pleased by the happenings blabbered on about Armadillo bile, Gillyweed and Jobberknoll feathers.

Sometimes, Sherlock's apparent lack of tactfulness and his ignorance towards other people's feelings were alarming and John found himself wondering once again why he chose to spend time with the self-proclaimed sociopath – until he realized he was, yet again, thinking about Sherlock when he was supposed to think about Sarah and what had just happened and that realization put him into an even worse mood until even Sherlock realized that John was no willing recipient of his wisdom and shut up, petting Auriga instead, affronted by John's foul mood and unwillingness to 'ooh' and 'aah' at what the Slytherin was saying.

Neither of the two boys was superstitious, although John asked himself quite often why it was always THEM that ended up the way they did, but really, with Sherlock as a friend, there was no other way to live, probably. But if they had been superstitious, the foul mood at the start of their fourth year could have been an indicator of the things to come. And while no one really paid attention to this mood or thought it significant, Greg (who was the only one willing to stay in the same department as the two sulking boys) had a bad feeling in his guts that he couldn't put a finger on.

X

Despite the rough start of the school year, the weeks after turned out infinitely more pleasant for both, John and Sherlock.

It appeared that a recently-turned-15, handsome, charming, friendly and smart – and, yes, Quidditch-player-god – John Watson was one of the most wanted boys of the school and he didn't lack attention. Wherever he went, a horde of girls was either following or waiting and his hormones-filled brain could barely contain his excitement.

At first, this annoyed Sherlock, but seeing as John couldn't seem to actually keep the girls he chose to go out with for more than a week or two (maybe Sherlock was not entirely innocent in this) but didn't mind so much seeing as there were already three new girls waiting if one dumped him and therefore was in a generally good mood, which, in turn, was beneficial for Sherlock, the Slytherin could tolerate the girls.

However, when the time of the full moon crept closer, Sherlock got impatient with the girls hunting him and John down on a regular basis and simply grabbed John by the arm when they were walking down a corridor, shoved him into the next broom cupboard and locked it behind them. There was not much room – technically, no room at all – since Sherlock had grown another two inches (John secretly envied him for that, but also wondered when the Slytherin would stop) and John, whose baby-fat was steadily turning into muscles and a compact shape, took up a lot of space, too, and so John's face was basically pressed into Sherlock's chest, while one of Sherlock's elbows was cramped in between to shelves and his other arm was twisted behind his back from his motion to lock the door behind them.

John struggled against him and mumbled something that Sherlock felt vibrating in his own chest before the Gryffindor managed to turn his head about 90 degrees and now had his cheek pressed against Sherlock's chest, but was free to speak.

"What the hell are we doing?" he hissed, still struggling weakly in an attempt of gaining more personal space – or any space, for that matter.

"Hiding from your flock of hormonal teenage admirers so we can talk about things that actually matter," Sherlock replied easily, wriggling his arm a bit. He shoved down some cans that hit John's head.

"Ow- for god's sake, watch out, Sherlock!"

"It's not my fault this cupboard is not designed to hold two persons-"

"Or any persons"

"-so stop complaining. The sooner we get this topic off the table, the sooner we'll get out of here. Now listen-" Sherlock moved around some more, almost broke John's nose during that but finally got his other arm in an upright position and lit his wand. John only rolled his eyes at the ridiculous sight – both of them cramped together in the small cupboard, his face all squished up against Sherlock's chest and the Slytherin staring down at him impatiently, his pale eyes shining in the soft light of his wand.

"Full moon is tomorrow night and I think I figured out how Greyback got into the school last year – and we will use the same way to get me out tomorrow night!"

"I'm making an effort to look surprised here," John replied dryly, trying to prevent himself from drooling all over Sherlock's shirt from the weird angle his face was pressed against his friend.

"It's not successful, in case you wondered," the Slytherin dismissed him, not getting the sarcasm, and just kept on talking. "After some research I found out that a boy named Remus Lupin had been a werewolf during the time he went to school here and Dumbledore had found a way of getting him out of the school every full moon. The Whomping Willow was planted the same year Lupin started attending Hogwarts – coincidence? I think not. I think this extremely violent tree was planted to protect or hide something – a passageway off the school grounds, to be precise."

"I'm assuming you have thought of a way getting us past the branches before they knock our heads off?" was all John could ask, going with the flow, so to speak, because Sherlock seemed very convinced of his own theory.

"Of course I have – you are going to transform into a dog and get past the branches before they 'knock our heads off' as you so nicely put it, to the base of the tree where you should find a knot which you have to press in order to immobilize the tree for a moment."

John sighed dramatically. "Why do your plans always involve me running about, doing ridiculously stupid things?"

"Well, because _I'm_ smart and don't do stupid things," Sherlock concluded, wriggling when John moved around. "What are you doing- is that your wand?"

Coming from anyone else, this would've been hilarious, but coming from Sherlock, who tried to kill people with looks when they were being childish and immature, it was even better and John didn't even try to hold back his giggles while he, indeed, tried to get his wand out of the pocket of his trousers to unlock the door of the cupboard again.

"What?!" Sherlock seemed really annoyed by now and John just kept laughing at the Slytherin's obvious displease of his behaviour.

"You really should reconsider the choice of your words, Sherlock," he advised between laughter and finally managed to cast the spell that unlocked the door, resulting in it bursting open and the two of them stumbling out backwards, John still laughing, Sherlock still annoyed.

John's laughter died down, though, when he stared right back into the wide eyes of a group of girls that had obviously been roaming the hallways in search for him. Sherlock was already on his feet and turned with a dramatically twirling cloak, strutting down the hallway, while John tried to look as unsuspicious as he could.

"DO KEEP UP, JOHN, WE HAVE BUSINESS TO ATTEND!" Sherlock called back and disappeared around a corner, leaving a beet-root red John to the mercy of six teenage girls.

X

John ducked as the Whomping Willow, obviously set on making him chopping his head off, lashed out and missed him only by inches, raining down some dried leaves on the fur of his back.

"That was pretty close, you should watch out more," Sherlock advised quietly from the sides and John was tempted to bark at him before deciding that there were more important matters at hand – surviving a raging plant, perhaps – and jumped forward a bit, rolling to the side when another branch came close to decapitating him and he found himself on his back, looking up at the deep violet sky of dusk, when ha rather thick branch appeared right above him and raced down.

With a yelp, John scrambled to his feet, the branch stamped into the ground where his furry belly had been seconds before and with one last giant dive, he went for the base of the Willow.

"You have to press one of the knobs there!" Sherlock hissed and John, by now fed up with the 'helpful' advise of the 'genius' yelled back: "OH REALLY? I ABSOLUTELY FORGOT ABOUT THAT PART OF THE 'PRESS THE KNOB ON THE BASE OF THE TREE' PLAN YOU KNOW?!" but of course, since he was in his dog form, all that came out was a very angry "WOOF YARGH? RRAHJG WWWOOOF WOOOF YAPYAPYAP GRRHH WOOF?!"

Frustrated at his own lacking ability to properly yell at his bollocks friend, he angrily pawed at the tree and, just when his ears registered the whooshing sound of a whipping branch coming closer and closer, a shiver went through the Whomping Willow and it stilled completely.

While John was still calming down, tongue poking out between his jaws when he panted, Sherlock rushed past him and knelt down at an opening between the branches that had not been visible before. "You look incredibly ridiculous right now. Also, we have no time to lose – the moon will be up in 25 minutes," the Slytherin stated. "I suggest you turn back into a human and follow me. Rather quickly, if convenient." And with that, he slid down the hole, feet first, and John wagged his tail slowly before whimpering and turning back, following his friend down the hole before the Willow could start moving again.

Sherlock was already a good bit down the low path – John could see the light of his wand dance in the distance – and so the Gryffindor hurried to follow. The closer he got to Sherlock, he could hear the low rumble of his friend's voice taking in what he was seeing and deducing. "…must have been here, see, there's grey hair that definitely belongs to an animal- I need to collect some samples. We can't say for sure if it's from Greyback or maybe Lupin, though, until I analyzed it-"

"It's Greyback's," John told him, with a small smile, knowing that his statement would confuse Sherlock.

"How do you know? Has my ability to make logic deductions finally made an impact on you?" The Slytherin promptly asked, turning around to stare at John from narrowed eyes.

"I smelled it," John admitted, grinning sheepishly. "When you slid down the hole, the air coming out got caught in my dog nose. Everything smells of Greyback down here, he made sure that whoever came down here knew this was his territory."

"Excellent, I will be able to detect this too when I turn into a werewolf later," came the instant reply of Sherlock and although John had not really counted on praise he was a bit disappointed. Sure, he hadn't exactly done a deduction, but still – he used his senses to find out something, that surely must have counted, right?

Instead of arguing about it, though, he simply followed his taller friend down the path and they were walking for about 15 minutes when they reached some stairs. Sherlock mumbled a spell and laid his wand flat on his palm, where it rotated for a moment. John recognized this as the Four-Point-Spell and although he didn't know why Sherlock needed to know where North was, the Slytherin seemed to be delighted by what he was witnessing.

"Oh, John, this is brilliant!" He exclaimed, almost smiling. "Do you know where we are?"

John smiled and shook his head. When Sherlock was in one of these moods, he was just pure fun to be around and John was more than happy to 'ooh' and 'aah' a bit to stroke his friend's ego when he was radiating like that. Usually, he just looked like that when he solved a particularly difficult puzzle, and this seemed to be one of them.

"We steadily went downwards and only just went up for the last two minutes, this means we left Hogwarts grounds for Hogsmeade – and not just to anywhere, no! Oh, everything makes sense now! The ghost stories, the howling, the perception charm!"

"Whoa wait a minute- are you saying-" John couldn't help but gape at Sherlock. "Are you saying we're at the Shrieking Shack?"

"_Under_ the Shrieking Shack – do be more precise! But yes. The howling everyone witnessed was just Lupin and later Greyback transforming in there, and the perception charm was probably cast by Dumbledore himself – he must have been a remarkable wizard, seeing as it is still working although he's been dead for several years now." Sherlock looked smug. "This will be perfect for my monthly transformation."

He already skipped up the stairs and pushed the door at the top open and John followed hurriedly, trying to shake off the nervousness of entering the haunted house.

The excitement about the new place was so big that even when the transformation started, Sherlock couldn't be bothered by the pain and went through it amazingly silent – John knew it hurt, Sherlock had told him about it, and he cringed when he saw how Sherlock's knuckles turned white when his skin ripped and his limbs twisted, when the muscles in his neck stood out prominently and his eyes tinted yellow. John turned back into his dog form and, for a moment, felt like licking over the snout of the panting werewolf on the ground, but of course didn't do so since Sherlock would most likely disapprove of this comforting gesture. Instead, he waited until his friend was calm enough to open his eyes again and after only the shortest recovery time, Sherlock's now piercing yellow eyes snapped open, he leaped up and yelped in excitement before shooting out of the room to explore the house. John's simple dog nature was instantly captured by the buzzing excitement and he simply raced after Sherlock, barking happily.

They explored the whole shack, from the door leading to the Whomping Willow up to the top floor, examined every room, took in the broken furniture, the claw marks on the floor – from someone larger than Sherlock, so probably Greyback, and sniffed in every corner, catching the overly prominent scent of Greyback and a less prominent scent from something else Sherlock later described as werewolfish, so probably Lupin.

At some point way past midnight, John yawned and curled up on the floor in the bedroom, with his head securely resting on his paws that were covering their wands and he dozed off while Sherlock, after sending him one judging look went about the house to do some more research. When the first hint of light appeared at the horizon and the darkness became less dark, John was woken by the familiar, crunching sound of Sherlock turning back into a human and, after turning back himself, he picked up their wands, found Sherlock in the dusty kitchen and supported the knackered Slytherin on their way back to the castle.

X

No one knew that the encounter that happened at the beginning of December would change everything. However, it didn't announce itself, it didn't built itself up, it wasn't dramatic and if it were part of a film, it would have gotten the worst ratings because it was too sudden, without warning, at a random time, with no time to built up the tension.

Obviously, Sherlock's brain had been working on the riddle that was his life at Hogwarts from the first weird thing that had happened to him. When he had heard about the 'Great Game' for the first time, to be precise. The squib's words were inside his mind and he could play them like an old record, but they never made sense. They continued to not make sense when the mysterious Heir of Slytherin had attacked in their second year, but there was a net beginning to form, with strings connected to Sherlock and ultimately leading towards the middle, where a big faceless spider was waiting. Cassiopeia Holmes had talked about the game, though unintentionally, and Sherlock's suspicion that he had to distance himself from things if he was to figure it out had been affirmed. In the game the Holmes family played, there was no room for him, but his opponent had obviously created a game for the two of them.

When Sherlock visualized the net, there was always a bright blue string that represented himself woven together with the black strings of his opponent. Then, there was John, who, as far as Sherlock knew, was not connected to the spider in the middle of the net and was only connected to Sherlock himself through a bright red string. And that left only one person in the net. James Moriarty. He'd been involved in at least two of the three incidents over the past three years and no matter how much Sherlock tried, he couldn't make sense of it.

John didn't know anything about these thoughts which he kept in a great hall in his mind palace, labeled 'The Great Game' but Sherlock actually spent most of his time when he wasn't occupied with other things thinking about it, getting more and more frustrated.

And so, when he was wandering the dungeons and passed Jim _(obviously on his way back from Potions class, remains of a spilled potion on his sleeve, a smudge from something burnt and the general smell of Potion classroom 3)_ he didn't hesitate and grabbed the smaller boy by his arm, yanked him into a dark corner and pressed one hand to his mouth when he tried to scream. After a short struggle, Jim stilled and looked at Sherlock with big eyes, while the taller Slytherin lowered his hand and leaned in.

"How did you do it?" Sherlock asked bluntly, eyes fixed on Moriarty, who was pressed up against the wall and shifted uncomfortably.

"What are you talking about?" He whimpered, but Sherlock stayed hard and drilled his pale eyes into the almost black ones of the smaller Slytherin.

"You were involved with the Squib in our first year, Greyback recognized you and although I still don't know why, you must have been part of the happenings of the Chamber of Secrets. So how. Did. You. Do. It?"

Moriarty was breathing frantically and one of his eyebrows twitched in a clear sign of distress. "I- I don't know what you're talking about, I'm- I got petrified, I told you, I don't know who did it, it was all very fa-" And this was where the sudden climax happened, the climax that would have made a film bad and that came so sudden no-one, not even Sherlock had suspected it. Because suddenly, Jim stopped mid-word and Sherlock witnessed something incredible.

The pale, rat-like face changed somehow, not physically obviously, but its whole look changed and within seconds the insecure, whiny boy had transformed into a pale, dangerously looking teenager with hard lines around his eyes. "Oh alright, this is getting a bit annoying, isn't it?"

Jim's voice had dropped quite a bit from the usual high-pitch he talked in and Sherlock cocked his head the slightest bit at the massive transformation he'd witnessed right before his eyes – and ears.

"Did I surprise you?" Jim asked, still sounding strange with the deeper voice, and grinning like someone who had just witnessed something extraordinarily delightful. "Did I really surprise the great Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock gave no answer and after a moment, Jim rolled his eyes. "I like you better when you talk."

"And I like you better when you're petrified," Sherlock deadpanned and for the shortest of moments, something like anger flickered over Jim's face before he got control over himself again and actually laughed out loud.

"Ah the good old times… did you like the little adventure? I must say, I was a bit disappointed when you got in trouble with the Devil's Snare right at the beginning, but after that – really classy, I have to admit."

"So it was you who pushed me down the trap door?" Sherlock treaded water carefully, not sure as of yet what to do with this new Jim Moriarty who was standing not-so-intimidated-anymore opposite him.

Jim sighed dramatically. "Don't be _stupid!_" He rubbed his face. "You already know it was the squib. Why are you being so _stupid_ now?"

Sherlock simply ignored the weird mood swing and asked: "What about the Chamber of Secrets? You're a Parselmouth, I suppose?"

"Nuh-uh," Jim waved with one finger, an absurd gesture one would make to small children to shut them up, and the tsk-ed disapprovingly. "It's not a game of Truth or Dare, Sherlock. You can't just ask questions and expect them to be answered. To be honest, you caught me a bit off-guard, I really don't have much time now… the business, you know…" He shook his head with a smile that conveyed 'you know how it is'.

Sherlock's mind worked even quicker than usual. This change in Moriarty's behaviour already proved that there was more to the boy than his shy façade and he had admitted he'd been involved in everything that had happened to Sherlock as of now. But what were his goals? What did he want? What did he get out of it? Why?

Sherlock didn't think in terms of good and evil, but if he would, he would say that there was a 78% chance that Moriarty was evil.

The other boy seemed to sense what was going on in Sherlock and one corner of Moriarty's mouth curled up slightly. "No need for fretting. We'll meet again soon, I promise. You're far too interesting to be left alone…" It was clear that Moriarty meant 'meet' as in meeting like this, not meeting in their everyday lives, as students of Hogwarts and dorm-mates.

There was only one thing Sherlock needed to make clear when he thought back to everything that had happened because of Moriarty over the past years. "Stay away from John. This is a thing between you and me, I should think."

Moriarty pursed his lips and wrinkled his nose a bit, smiling. "Aah, I'm afraid that would be too boring… but just look at it as a Great Game – we both play, but if the players don't watch out, their _most valued pieces_ are being taken." Then, he shrugged and smiled. "I'll see you around, Sherlock." And with that, he left, simply left Sherlock behind. Sherlock, who knew where all of this was leading to, who knew what he had to do. Save his most valued piece. Because you needed this piece, you couldn't risk losing it. And sometimes, in chess, you had to make sacrifices.

X

Moriarty was gone the next morning, Professor Slughorn explained something about a family emergency and no one really cared about the shy boy being gone, but Sherlock was just more intrigued – he knew Moriarty didn't just leave the field. He was up to something, maybe just making plans, but nevertheless, he was no less dangerous than before. Maybe he was even more dangerous because Sherlock couldn't keep track of him anymore.

X

John noticed that something with Sherlock seemed off lately, but he decided not to worry too much – it was probably either one of his moods, or maybe discomfort from his infection, or just something Sherlock-y that would solve itself sooner or later (or result in one or the other adventure with uncertain ending). When just before the Christmas holidays a party was to be thrown, in an empty classroom on the seventh floor, John thought this was the perfect opportunity to keep Sherlock's mind off things and do something for his reputation.

Frankly, the Slytherin's reputation was still more than dubious and the only thing that saved John from being stabbed at verbally as often as Sherlock was the fact that he still was on the Quidditch team and did a marvelous job as Keeper. A little bit social mixing couldn't hurt Sherlock and as long as John was close to stop him from blurting out deductions, they should do fairly well and maybe some people other than Greg and himself started to see what a… well, interesting person Sherlock could be if he wanted to.

IF he wanted to, that was. John knew he had taken up a Sisyphean task when he had decided to convince Sherlock to attend the Christmas party but despite extensive bristling on the part of Sherlock, in the end the fluffy-puppy-eyes-charm of John succeeded (and the fact that John had threatened to stop allowing Sherlock to copy his History of Magic homework – it's not that Sherlock couldn't do it and he waved John off dismissively at first, claiming that he could "easily do it by himself" but after a while he came to the conclusion that this would take up too much of his precious experimenting time and reluctantly gave in to John's request – or blackmail, how Sherlock called it – to attend the party).

The evening started out really good. There was a large number of students from every house and every year, and although most of them did a double take upon seeing Sherlock strut in the room like he owned the place, the nasty comments were held back. Of course John and Sherlock could hear them whisper but soon enough Zack, Greg, Alec and Mike came around and while Sherlock not exactly looked like he was enjoying himself, at least he stayed more or less friendly (or, well, indifferent).

Sarah and Molly showed up sometime later, too, but didn't come over – John and her still didn't talk much and so the girls stayed in another corner, soon talking to some Hufflepuffs, including a girl John recognized as Sally Donovan.

As the evening progressed and more and more students from the other Quidditch teams came over to discuss matches that had taken place over the past few weeks, John noticed how Sherlock grew increasingly impatient and suggested: "How about you look around for someone else to talk to? I know you're not that interested in Quidditch."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "And who do you suggest I talk to? As you may have noticed, there are not many people fond of me in this room. Or any interesting people, for that matter."

John bit back that the former was partly Sherlock's own fault and instead let his gaze roam over the crowd before he stopped at the girls in one corner. "What about Molly? She's nice enough and I know she's been helping you in the dungeons sometimes!"

The Slytherin replied nothing, as if this suggestion wasn't even worth being grazed with an answer but when John cocked his head, he heaved a sigh and pursed his lips. "Fine. Might as well listen to her rants, at least it's somewhat flattering…"

Before John could chastise him, he turned around and daftly made his way through the crowd, actually managing to get through without touching a single person. Feeling somehow like a babysitter who had just found a new distraction for a sulking child, John returned to the other Quidditch players and for a little while, everything seemed to go well. That was, until the turmoil in one corner of the room started.

John was just talking to Greg and Mike when there were voices getting louder and louder on the opposite site of the room. John's insides went ice-cold and he desperately hoped it was not Sherlock causing this, but deep inside, he knew that this hope was in vain.

"… it's because you're a bloody freak!" a female voice John recognized as Donovan's sounded through the room and all it took was a quick exchange of glances with Greg, before John and his friend boxed their way through the crowd simultaneously, to reach Sherlock before the inevitable could happen.

Once again, John cursed being short because the other students were much bigger obstacles because of that, and the crowd seemed to go on forever. He cursed under his breath when everyone slowly fell silent and just when he broke free from between the people and saw Greg doing the same a few meters to his left, his eyes fell on a scenery he'd dreaded.

Sherlock was standing opposite of Sarah and Sally, while Molly, somehow awkward, hovered in the middle, pressed back against the wall and with eyes scurrying between Sherlock and John's ex-girlfriend of sorts. And then Sherlock opened his mouth, his body posture calm and cold and John didn't have to see his friends' eyes to know how they looked – cold, calculating, cutting through your soul – and said: "I tolerated you well enough, but if you chose to be this ignorant, it seems like your ability to suppress the thought of your father mistreating you as a child and hence seeking a relationship with John who admittedly can appear quite adult sometimes and provided you with the same feeling of protection your father did, is not as thorough as I thought. Your accusations are simply born out of spite and in the end, you're not better than anyone else in this room."

Had the situation been less dramatic, the simultaneous dropping of every single jaw in the room would have been comical, but in the silence that followed this statement, no one dared to laugh. His instincts kicked in before everyone else could move again, though, and so a fuming John yanked Sherlock around by his sleeve and dragged him out of the room, aware of everyone's eyes following them. The look of pure shock in Sarah's face was still branded into his eyes when he roughly pushed Sherlock against the stone wall of the corridor outside.

X

"What the BLOODY HELL where you thinking?! What you said to Sarah was awful! Why did you do it?!" John hissed, obviously angry.

Sherlock rolled his shoulders to get rid of the small amount of pain from being pushed against the wall and shrugged. "It was the truth."

"You still just can't blurt out stuff like that - you know how mean people can be! You didn't have the right to expose her like that! I won't even mention that you dragged me into this, too – what were you thinking?!"

In Sherlock's eyes, John's anger was not really entitled, after all, he hadn't heard what Sarah and Sally had said about him while Sherlock had been close and talking to Molly (well, _at_ Molly, since she was too intimidated to reply properly) and he didn't understand what the problem was – he'd made deductions about almost everyone in the room already and John never exploded like that. Why did he care about Sarah – it wasn't like they were still together, after all! Also, right now, John was being quite hypocritical, and Sherlock had every intention on telling him so – he narrowed his eyes and replied: "Ah, see, that's where you're right – I know exactly how 'mean' people can be, right? How is it different if people call me things to when I state the truth about someone who talked mean about me before?"

John ran one hand through his hair and stared at Sherlock unbelieving. "You're bloody Sherlock Holmes – you've always been standing over all of this!"

A small, petulant part in Sherlock wanted to state that he wasn't obvious to the things they said about him and also about _John_.

Now, Sherlock felt anger bubble up on his insides – most likely due to his infection, he figured, but for whatever reason it was, it was highly inconvenient. The strange thing, though, was that it also felt good. It felt good being angry at John, it felt relieving. "I might stand over all of this, but that still doesn't justify it."

"Why does this have to be about you now?" John called out, throwing his hands in the air – he was getting really worked up and the rational part of Sherlock's brain noticed the physical signs of the Gryffindor's anger with interest, while the part that was slowly getting ignited by anger listened to the words. "If people talk bad about you it's because they don't understand you, because they're scared of your bloody intellect, but you're being deliberately mean and cruel – you know exactly what your words can do!" John continued, his cheeks flushed now.

"So just because I'm more intelligent than anyone else I have to take every insult people throw at me?"

"Of course not! But you can prove you're better than them by ignoring them!"

Sherlock looked indifferent. "I am better than them, I don't need to prove it."

"Oh for God's sake-" John sighed exasperatedly, "-can you try, just for one second, to think like a normal person? What you said was really-"

John's voice sounded through Sherlock's brain overly loud. The Gryffindor kept talking, but all Sherlock could hear was 'think like a normal person'… a 'normal person' – as if he wasn't normal?! Well, he wasn't, not really - Sherlock had always known he was different, and usually, he didn't care, not even when they called him freak, but hearing these words from John – hearing that he was not 'normal'… a dull ache throbbed in his chest and only fed his anger. How dared John? John, of all people?

John, whom he had tried to keep safe all the time, whose life he had saved – and who needed even more safe-keeping, now with all the Moriarty games going on. _How dared John to talk to him like this?!_

"You want me to think like a normal person? Well, excuse me if this is news to you, but I can't! And frankly, I don't want to. I don't want to think like any of you, ever."

John's eyes went wide when Sherlock interrupted him midsentence, and he brought the back of his hand to his forehead for a moment before replying: "Just… we're friends, and you can't talk to your friends like that."

Something strange happened. Maybe it was him thinking normal. Maybe it was due to his lower anger threshold due to the infection with Lycanthropy. Maybe it was for another reason. But Sherlock's mouth said words before his brain thought it through, and although he knew what these words would do to John, he didn't regret them, he didn't take them back. He told himself it was easier that way. A part of him, the part that felt that strange connection to John knew that this was probably the best way to keep John safe. He almost smiled at himself. Keep John safe and, at the same time satisfy his own anger. In a way, Sherlock felt satisfied. The words he said were: "I don't have friends."

Sherlock could pinpoint the exact moment John snapped. He saw it in the shorter boys' body language, in his eyes.

"What?"

The Slytherin didn't know that John's voice could sound so flat. His brain automatically filed that information away in the part of his mind palace that was labeled 'John Watson', but he kept his face neutral as he replied: "You heard me perfectly well. I don't have friends. I don't have to care about the social protocol, I don't have to care about how my words affect other people – I work better that way, in fact, I work brilliant. Caring is not an advantage."

He knew he was quoting Mycroft, but in this moment, it felt right. This new side inside Sherlock, this new side that was somehow sadistic and wanted to see John suffer for what he said was glad when it saw how the Gryffindor's face fell.

This moment had seemed to be inevitable, really. Sherlock knew that sooner or later, he would have to put an end to all this – John dragging him around to be social, meetings with Mike and Zack and Alec and Greg – and Sarah and Molly, of all people. There was a reason for why he never befriended other children when he was younger (aside from the fact that they always forwent him anyways because he was weird with his posh clothes, the intense stare and his deductions and the fact that he was a Holmes) and he should've known that keeping John and his entourage at bay would have been the better way.

A small part whispered 'John saved your life', 'John focuses you' – but the bigger part of his brain saw the disadvantages and was hurt by John words and wanted to be alone, wanted to return to experiments, deductions and cases. To deal with Moriarty by himself. In the end, this would always be it. Him and Moriarty, playing games for three years now and, from what it looked like, for quite some more time.

"You're – what the hell do you mean-" John still had a hard time getting his mind around what Sherlock said, but the anger in his face was clear now, as clear as his clenched fists. "You're talking some real shit here – you're my best friend and you even said so yourself! So what the fuck is this about?"

And just because he could, and also because he wanted to and because maybe his life would become good again, Sherlock spoke the few words he knew would completely shatter John and end all of this. "It was convenient to say that to you. I needed you to-"

The punch sent his head around in a whipping motion and the pain instantly seeped through the raw cut prominent on his cheek.

"You. Utter. Arse." John whispered, holding his fist with his other hand, massaging his knuckles. "Get the fuck away from here."

Sherlock noticed that the hallway was eerily silent, that the chatter in the room behind them had started again, that there was a minor snowstorm going on outside the castle, somehow reflecting the atmosphere in the empty corridor, but his main attention was on John's face, that looked like nothing Sherlock had ever seen before. Hurt and rage and more hurt and more rage danced through the dark eyes of the boy who had considered him his best friend, and somehow, Sherlock knew this was over. Without any more words, he turned around and left, the fingers of his left hand dreamily ghosting over his bruised cheek while he wandered the dark halls of the castle.

It was over.

X

At first, everyone thought it was just going to be a short problem. That they would pull themselves together again. The whispers about what Sherlock had deduced about Sarah died down after a week and everyone knew that Sherlock and John had been fighting, but now, that the chatter was getting un-interesting and died down slowly, almost all students expected John and Sherlock to sort things out.

That didn't happen, though. A week after the party, they were still not talking and not even Sarah, who pointedly ignored John as well as Sherlock, could deny the fact that something seemed off. Greg was the first who started to worry, and when John refused to talk about Sherlock, Zack, Mike and Alec worried, too.

Talking to Sherlock proved to be the most stupid idea Greg had because over the period of three and a half minutes, Sherlock told the four of them off so dismissively that they were traumatized for the rest of the day.

On the train ride back for Christmas, no one dared to bring up the topic of Sherlock and John acted as if everything was perfectly normal, despite the fact that it wasn't because it was simply strange to sit in a compartment without Sherlock and seeing John without Sherlock in general.

Christmas came and went by, the Hogwarts express took everyone back to school and still, John and Sherlock didn't talk or see each other or even look at each other when they accidentally passed each other in the hallway. Two weeks into the new year and almost a month after the big fight, Greg made another attempt of getting John to talk to Sherlock again, but when he said: "Look, mate, you and Sherlock were best friends, you can't stay mad at him for forever-"

"Turns out that Sherlock doesn't have friends, though," John interrupted him icily and left their table abruptly. He apologized for 'being harsh' to Greg later, but didn't mention what they talked about at all. And so time went on, classes were attended (with Sherlock sitting in the back of the classroom all by himself; if he showed up, that was – more often, he just skipped classes from the looks of it), Quidditch matches were played, Greg started dating Molly for a while, John went out with some girls before turning up hand in hand with Sarah one evening in March, apparently all sorted out with her, and life went on.

Except.

Except John was always home at curfew. Except he didn't get into trouble for sneaking around the castle with Sherlock in the nights. Except he didn't show up in the common room with a burnt cloak because Sherlock had experimented and more-or-less-accidentally set him on fire.

Except everyone left some room at John's side when walking with him, as if the empty space was just waiting to be occupied by Sherlock again, who had always been there.

Greg eventually found out what Sherlock had said to John. The Keeper had told him part of it on the 31st of March, Sherlock's birthday, when Greg found him laying on his back in the grass next to the lake, staring up at the sky. John never went there after that day. The rest, Greg got to know when he had the – in his mind brilliant – idea of interviewing the paintings that had obviously witnessed the whole thing. And although Greg knew, it d didn't mean he _understood_. But it looked like this evening had truly been the end of the era of _John and Sherlock_.

X

John and Sherlock hadn't been speaking for over five months now, when one sunny day in May, Greg came running down the hill to where John was sitting with Mike, Alec and Zack, studying for their exams. Unconsciously or not, they had been avoiding the small, somewhat separated area with the tree against which Sherlock used to sit when they were outside during spring and summer, and they were currently sprawled out on the grass, going through their Potion notes while John tried to teach Alec about the Girding Potion.

They all knew that if Sherlock was here, he'd roll his eyes at their feeble attempts of understanding the potion right, then he would criticize John's way of explaining it and finally, he'd give in and give a long, snotty, but informative monologue about said potion, leaving them bedazzled and understanding. But Sherlock wasn't here, and John did a good job of teaching Alec.

The four Gryffindors looked up, though, when they heard the sound of Greg's rapid footsteps and watched how their friend almost toppled over in his hurry. He was breathing heavily by the time he'd reached them and they were all worried at the serious, almost desperate facial expression he wore, but no one was as worried as John, who just knew what Greg was about to say. His insides curled into a tight knot and the rate of his heartbeat increased for a moment while he steeled himself for what was about to come.

"What's happened?" Mike asked, cocking his head worriedly and Greg, as soon as he managed to get air back into his lungs, locked his eyes on John and told him: "I'm sorry, John, I know you don't want to talk about it- but Sherlock, he's-" he gasped for air again, beetroot red in his face, "-ahh, shit, I need to breathe-" he cleared his throat and pressed one hand against his chest for a moment, while the others watched John intently. Their friend's facial expression had turned stoical and his eyes were only the slightest bit narrowed down at Greg. "- he's in the Hospital wing, poisoned- I found him in the dungeons twenty minutes ago. There was vomit all over the place, and Sherlock was lying on the ground, white as a sheet, sweating madly and totally disoriented, mumbling that he was 'burning from the inside'. He didn't even react when I touched him and his heart rate was going crazy, so I called for help and they carried him to the Hospital Wing-"

_Vomiting. Disorientation. Sweating. Confusion. Gastrointestinal Pain. Numbness. Heartbeat off._

The symptoms hovered in front of John's eyes and he could almost hear Sherlock's low voice rumble next to his ear, speaking them out loud. He didn't need Greg to tell him what had happened to Sherlock.

_Aconite._

"- they say it's an aconite poisoning, maybe he accidentally swallowed it or something. I mean, he's out of the woods now, but he very nearly almost died…" Greg finished, voice dropping.

After a moment, John realized they were all looking at him, waiting for him to react in some way or the other, but he really didn't know what to say. Instead of replying, he got up, in slow-motion, just as if it was a dream, and started to walk towards the castle. Greg hurried after him, starting to speak: "Look, mate, I know you're not… you're not friends anymore, but maybe you should-"

"I have to go. I'll see you later," John simply cut him off and didn't stop walking, while Greg stopped in his tracks and got left behind, looking after John with an expression of desperation.

John didn't know Greg actually spent a lot of time around Sherlock as of lately – not with him, mind you, because Sherlock made a good point in staying for himself, really – but Greg made sure to check on him now and then, because there was no other way to put it: Sherlock was in a downward spiral, getting in more fights, doing more dangerous experiments, getting in trouble with professors and students, not sleeping for days and things like that. To be honest, it worried Greg and while he understood what had let to the separation of John and Sherlock, he couldn't help but worry about the younger boy. No matter how cool and grown-up Sherlock acted, he was just a kid, like themselves, and Greg, having grown up with three other siblings, saw Sherlock as something like his younger brother, someone he needed to look after when the big git couldn't do so. Finding him in the dungeons earlier, almost dead, had disturbed Greg deeply and he didn't know why John shut himself off like that.

The Keeper, however, did not know any of this, and his body acted automatically while it carried him through the castle and down towards the cold of the dungeons. With the sureness of a sleep-walker, John navigated through the maze of rooms until he found himself where Sherlock had obviously been lying in agony only minutes ago.

With one look at the table and the ingredients the Slytherin had been working with, John knew what he had been doing. Sherlock had obviously run out of Wolfsbane Potion and had tried to brew it by himself, but he had overdosed on the Aconite and poisoned himself.

A small, very nasty part of his brain wondered if maybe Sherlock had done it on purpose. He was an excellent potioneer and the probability of him making such a mistake was very small, but then again John had always been better with Healing Potions.

"_If there's anyone qualified to brew a Wolfsbane Potion, it's definitely you."_

Memories of days not so long ago (just a year – God, how fast time could pass!) resurfaced in John's mind and he clenched his fist, trying to think of something else.

_"John, you're my friend. I know you can do it, so help me - I'm asking you as my friend."_

"But that was all just a great big lie, wasn't it?" John asked the empty room and cringed when his voice resounded from the marble. No one answered him. "And now you poisoned yourself, and instead of not bothering, you even make me care about it, you arse." In a fit of anger, John wiped a small glass vial off the table and sent it to the floor in shards. "Even now I have to clean up after you."

John slumped down in a chair then and simply stared at the havoc Sherlock had caused in the room. He stayed there until dusk, and when the sun had finally set, he sneaked out of the castle. His face was blank, he was done with himself and the whole world, he hated himself, and he felt sorry for himself, and he hated Sherlock and everything and everyone, but all of it became more bearable when he turned into his dog form.

The dulled emotions of the animal welcomed him, it was like he was underwater now, and distanced from everything bothering him, and when he disappeared between the woods of the Forbidden Forest he could breathe freely for the first time.

If someone had watched John, he would've seen how he changed into a dog and disappeared into the woods, where he spent a few hours finding Aconite, digging it out carefully, carrying it back to the castle where he turned back into a human. Then he stayed up all night, carefully mixing together the ingredients for a full bottle of Wolfsbane Potion and at three in the morning, he looked up, rubbed his eyes, sighed heavily and put a cork into the bottle with the finished potion and made his journey through the silent castle, all the way up the windy, dark stairs to the Owlery where he whistled for one of the school owls. He fell into his bed at four in the morning, knowing that Greg burnt to know where he'd been, but he yanked his curtains shut and fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

However, no one was watching John so no one knew about all that and all that was evidence of John's nightly activity was the bottle with the potion delivered to Sherlock the next morning. John never spoke of it, Sherlock did neither, although his eyes shot up from his seat for a split second, before he abruptly got up and left the Slytherin table with the bottle of potion.

John, tired, with heavy bags under his eyes, didn't notice that and just tried to not hate himself for once again giving in to Sherlock's need although they didn't even speak anymore and concentrated on making his sausage and eggs pay for his self-loathing. Greg watched the massacre of John's breakfast with raised eyebrows.

X

By the time the exams rolled around, Mycroft had attempted to kidnap John 3.5 times – the half time being when the woman working for him (Anthea?) had tried to get him to come along and John had simply turned into a dog before padding off, ignoring her calls for him. The other three attempts had actually brought John to facing Mycroft but he had downright refused to say anything – or listen, for that matter – until Mycroft had disappeared again.

Sherlock didn't fare better with his brother and Mycroft visited him even more frequently. That was, until Sherlock threw a bottle full of Bubotuber pus at him and the older Holmes only managed to escape narrowly. Mycroft was nothing but not resourceful, though, and he quickly found out that Greg looked after Sherlock in a way, so he was content with abducting him from time to time.

Greg, admittedly, watched Sherlock with great sorrow. While the first two months without John had been busy with experiments, Sherlock seemed to be off his game. Whatever it was that was troubling him, it stopped him from sleeping, attending classes regularly and doing his homework.

Of course no one knew Sherlock's mind was busy with Moriarty, and the weird feeling in his stomach that simply wouldn't go away, but it was obvious for anyone to see that Sherlock wasn't doing well. The poisoning had been the straw that broke the camel's back, though, and after being released (or rather releasing himself) from the Hospital Wing, Sherlock quickly found a way of silencing his brain, body and, well, everyone around him effectively.

The first time Greg found him high on something was only days after the poisoning incident. It was the day of Gryffindor's last Quidditch match, they'd wiped the field with the Ravenclaws and thanks to John's excellent Keeper abilities had won the Quidditch Cup yet another time, and Greg was on the way back to the castle, coming from the broom shed next to the Quidditch field when he noticed a lean figure sitting crouched down next to the Herbology glass houses. When he got closer, he recognized Sherlock – but a Sherlock how he'd never seen him before.

Just when Greg approached, the Slytherin sort of toppled over and ended up splayed out on his back, facing the clear blue sky, wearing a strangely calm expression on his face, looking almost lethargic.

"Sherlock?"

The Slytherin did not react and continued to stare at the clouds without blinking. Greg quickly crouched down next to him and searched for his pulse, that was concerning slow under his fingers. He grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and called his name out again, but the pale face surrounded by curls simply lolled around a bit, vacant expression still plastered on.

Greg was not proud of what he did next, but for the fear of Sherlock having poisoned himself again, or worse, all he could think of was shove his fingers down Sherlock's throat and triggering his gag reflex. The Slytherin vomited soundly and when he was done retching, his head whipped around, furious eyes meeting Greg's.

"What the hell are you doing Lestrade?"

"I could ask you the same thing! I found you lying on your back staring at the sky, not responding to anything!" Greg yelled back, not quite expecting being yelled at for trying to help.

"And you couldn't just leave me alone? No, your funny little brain decided on what was best," Sherlock fumed, still very pale and trying to calm shaking hands.

"What were you even doing?! Did you poison yourself again?!"

Sherlock staggered to his feet, wobbling around a bit, but managing to lean forward and hiss: "I was conducting an experiment. And you would do best to leave me alone!"

Greg stayed behind bewildered, but over the course of the next few weeks, he learnt about what Sherlock was doing. He was, in fact, experimenting – to create a drug, something like no one had ever seen before. What he was taking regularly was a mixture between the Draught of the Living Dead and Felix Felicis hexed with Cheering Charms. It silenced his mind – from whatever it was doing – and gave him peace and relaxation, as well as some sort of indifference and separation from the surrounding world. Depending on the dose, Sherlock would stay almost apathetic for hours, very much like a drug addict on heroin and whenever Greg found him like that, he made sure that no one else did, stayed with the Slytherin, cursed him, but never left before the potion was wearing off and Sherlock would slowly come back to himself, usually very irritated.

They yelled at each other at these times, Sherlock insulted him, deduced the meanest things, shouted and struggled when Greg held him back, but they never talked about why Sherlock was doing it. They didn't have to, though. Because Greg heard him whimper, sometimes.

He also tried to talk to John about this, but his friend seemed to have developed a Greg-wants-to-talk-about-Sherlock sense and avoided him whenever he started to approach the topic. Mycroft knew, obviously, but neither him nor Greg could stop Sherlock and so the only way of making sure the boy survived was taking care of him during his abuse.

With the combined forces of Mycroft and Greg, Sherlock stayed sober enough to get through his exams and on the evening of the last exam, Greg walked in on the two Holmes brothers in an empty classroom, fighting.

"- I don't know where he is, Mycroft! If I knew I would be in contact with him already." Sherlock called out, extremely aggravated.

"I'm just saying – if he wants to be found, you'll be the first one he'll contact and that puts you in great danger-" Mycroft tried to reason, but was interrupted by Sherlock.

"Oh like you have ever cared about that!"

"I have, actually, although you might not believe that. All I ask of you is to be careful – we don't know whom exactly we're dealing with."

That was the moment Sherlock realized Greg was standing in the door and the Gryffindor's presence put an effective end to the brothers' conversation. Greg had the slight feeling something was going on, something bigger, a… great game, if you wanted to call it that, and he wasn't sure if he liked Sherlock playing it.

X

On the train ride back to London, John and his dorm, for the first time, had trouble in finding a compartment with room for all of them and ended up split in groups. Sherlock, as usual, had his own compartment because no one dared to come near him, especially now that he was even weirder than usual and got into even more trouble as of lately.

Greg sat with him for a while, but soon the Slytherin became too annoying – Greg suspected seeing John walk by did it, but Sherlock would never admit that and showed no sign of even recognizing his former companion – and Greg gave up, wished him nice holidays (which Sherlock answered with a scoff) and went down the aisle to look for Mike and Zack who were seated with some Hufflepuffs.

No one saw Sherlock again after that, not when they left the train and not at King's Cross, and John disappeared just as quickly when he found his mother, leaving behind a worried Greg. The whole start of the holidays had something strange, unwelcoming to it; something was looming in the corner, something dark – something that was just waiting for the right moment to lash out.

Greg shook his head to get rid of the feeling and tried to look forwards to a summer without classes and homework. But the tension never left.

* * *

_Hiya darlings!_  
_I know this has been a long wait, and I apologize, but as I said, university is hell at the moment and I don't have much time to write.  
__There are and will be some **Greg-point-of-view parts,** simply because he will be the 'connection' between our two boys for the moment, and I hope you don't mind._  


* * *

_**Rant **regarding if this is going to turn into a romantic relationship: I will, in fact **turn this into something romantic** but there will be **not much graphic description** of stuff besides some kissing, so if you're interested in slash, I fear you're not going to find it here._

_I don't ship Johnlock in a romantic sense "in real life", seeing as I've got a friend that is so close and dear to me like John and Sherlock are to each other, so I know how close you can be to someone, even appear to be a couple without actually being one. I can understand Johnlock shippers, and I like them, sometimes I reblog Johnlock on tumblr and I even write Johnlock for the sake of this story, but for the actual series, I think they are "just friends". Soulmates, the best thing that had happened to each other, yes, but I don't see them in a romantic sense – no matter how much candles Angelo puts in front of them ;D_  
_**There will be romance** in this story, though, so I hope you're alright with my opinion on that matter :D_

* * *

_Hello Elli – I'm calling you Elli if that's alright – thank you so much for your lovely review! And thanks to everyone else, too – I'm naming anon!Elli as a representative of all you followers, and I just want you to know that your support and the feedback I get from you make me incredibly happy. I just want to thank all of you for being the lovely people that you are._

_Love, Hanna  
_


	13. Time of Doom - Part II: Summer Break 4

_Some more angst and violence, so please be careful if that triggers you. It's short though, since it's a summer break.  
_

* * *

"The poor boy – it's good he's asleep for the moment, it would be too much for him now."

"I know. He was really lucky to survive."

"But if he wakes up, it will be so hard – he has no one now. We can't find his sister."

"At least she wasn't home when they got attacked. If we find her, she might be able to care for the two of them."

"_If_ he wakes up – he's in a coma, and we don't know how many Stunning Spells he really caught. He must've fought like a lion."

"He's a Gryffindor, isn't he? I think my son has talked about him. Nice, friendly, good grades, star of the Quidditch Team – I just can't understand why someone would attack him and his family…"

"Well, there's always maniacs… we'll see…"

X

_~~Prior~~_

"_Mum, will Dad be home for lunch?" John called from his room where he was just sorting through his Hogwarts stuff – he had a whole collection of torn out pages and trash in his trunk that made it about 20 kilos heavier than it normally was, so his mum had asked him to go through it._

"_He should be home any minute," Mary called back and turned back to her pots. While she stirred the soup, her thoughts wandered off to the unsettling thing that had happened to John and Sherlock – John hadn't been explicit when he came home for Christmas, but Sherlock seemed to have said some mean things and now they weren't talking anymore. She, like everyone else, had figured they'd get the hang of it again, but now it was July and melancholy that was present on her son's face whenever he thought no one was looking was downright heartbreaking. Mary had been talking to Cassiopeia a few times, but Sherlock's mother didn't know much about the whole situation either and had declared she didn't want to discuss it further._

_The telephone rang, John answered and she heard him talking for a moment before he called down: "Harry asks if she can stay at Clara's for a while longer?"_

_Mary rolled her eyes, but called back: "Tell her as long as she goes to work tomorrow, she can stay."_

_John passed on the message and hung up before the footsteps retrieved to his room. Just when Mary wondered what took her husband so long, she heard the rustling of clothes and heavy footsteps at the front door and smiled. She quickly untied her apron and stepped into the hallway when the door burst into pieces and screams filled the small house._

X

"Can he hear us?"

"We can't be sure. He's got a severe trauma from when his head collided with a wall, most of his ribs are broken, both his legs and his left arm were contorted when we got there and he's got bruises and cuts all over his body. If he understands what we are saying, he must also be awake enough to feel all the pain – so just wish for him not to hear us."

"Poor boy. What about his parents, though?"

"As good as dead. Physically, they might recover, but their brains won't ever be the same. Their minds are completely blank, they don't even know how to chew food. They'll have to stay on the Fourth Floor in the closed ward for forever."

"But why didn't the attackers simply kill them? They almost did it to him!"

"The Ministry suspects some sort of intimidation attack against Muggle-born wizards. They meant to intimidate him and didn't count on him fighting back that ferociously."

"He's such a brave boy…"

X

_~~Prior~~_

_The piercing scream of his mother, together with the explosion, send John flying through the door of his room before he could think properly. He almost broke his neck when he ran down the stairs and entered the hallway just when two bulky wizards with raised wands barged in through the remains of their entrance door and went for Mary who was lying on the ground and desperately moving her hand around in search for something she could use as a weapon._

_John realized too late that he had left his wand on his nightstand but, when the first wizard had almost reached his mother, didn't think twice and simply jumped down the last steps, turning into his dog form while still in air and then his jaws closed around the arm of the first wizard, who yelled in pain._

_The second wizard aimed his wand for John, but the first, whose arm was currently ripped to shreds by the ferocious shepherd mix had already pointed his own wand at the dangling dog and yelled "Stupefy!", sending a jolt of bright red light into John's chest and catapulted him through the room. Mary called for her son while the first wizard swore and clutched his raw arm to his chest, where John's teeth had taken a large chunk of flesh with them when he was fought off._

X

It was night at St. Mungo's now and apart from the Healer on nightshift no one was around. The two figures in front of the large window revealing the look on the bruised and battered, unconscious boy in the hospital bed cast long shadows.

"Can we trace this back to Moriarty?"

"No, but I know it was his doing. I though your people were watching him?"

"According to 'my people', he's still in Albania. One of the attacking wizards was found dead in Central London earlier, he'd lost too much blood and the spells probably took their toll, but the second one can't be found. We think that he took a potion to alter his looks so no one can find him."

"Obviously."

The two stood in silence for a while, before the older one spoke up again. "If he wakes up-"

"When."

The older one cleared his throat. "When he wakes up, he will demand answers. He'll know that this attack was not a coincidence or Muggle-born intimidation, as the Minister told the Daily Prophet. You owe him an explanation."

"I don't owe him anything."

"You fully well know you do. I dislike thinking in terms of 'owing', but considering with what he helped you, with what he did for you, an explanation is indicated."

The posture of the younger person, already rigid and straight, became even tenser. "He told you?"

"Not exactly."

X

_~A summer ago~_

"_Did you and Sherlock ever plan on telling me that he's been infected with lycanthropy?"_

_Mycroft's eyes narrowed down while John did his best to hide his surprise and keep his face neutral. He had no idea what had given them away, but Mycroft seemed to be at least as intelligent as Sherlock, John suspected even more intelligent sometimes, so he knew that the older Holmes wasn't just shooting in the dark._

"_It's Sherlock's life and he can decide what he wants to tell you," John carefully replied, not exactly committing himself to the lycanthropy part. Just keep it nice and general, Watson._

"_If it were that way, we would know nothing about Sherlock at all," Mycroft told him with a grimace. When he realized that John wasn't going to say more, he sighed. "Look, John – it's always been my duty to look after my baby brother. He might not like it, and neither might I, but it's what I've always done and what I will keep doing until the day I – or much more likely, he – die. Greyback has received the Dementor's Kiss, he won't talk anymore, so it's just Sherlock, you and me. I don't mean him any harm, I just want to make sure he gets everything he needs."_

_John crossed his arms in front of his chest. He had been a fool to believe Mycroft wouldn't kidnap him in Holmes Manor, his own home, but that was exactly what had happened, two days after the full moon while Sherlock was asleep after being awake for over 50 hours. As touching as Mycroft's concern was, John was not sure how far he could trust the older Holmes. He did work for the government, after all._

_Mycroft, upon realizing he wouldn't get anything out of John, allowed himself another sigh and then leaned forward in his chair, fixing his eyes on the younger boy. "Can you at least affirm that Sherlock takes Wolfsbane Potion and that you're around in your Animagus form to prevent him from hurting people? Cleaning up after him would be a… tedious endeavour every month."_

"_He's cared for," John eventually confirmed and Mycroft, for a split-second, looked almost relieved before he caught himself and said: "I trust you both know about the dangers of Aconite? I could always contact the best potioneers-"_

"_He already has the best," John dismissed him and this time, he actually turned around and left the room. John was in no way someone who would boast with his abilities regarding Healing Potions, and he felt a bit uncomfortable in stating he was the best, but with the Holmes', it seemed like a little bit self-confidence was always appropriate._

X

"You have 15 minutes. Since you're actually sober for once, I suspect you planned this, so make the best of it," the older person stated and simply walked away, trusting that the other one would come to a decision quickly.

In fact, the now lonely figure stood in front of the window for two more minutes before he walked to the door with deliberate steps, pushed it open and slipped through.

The boy in the bed was still fast asleep – comatose – and although the Healers had done their best to patch up the bruises and cuts and broken bones and limps, the small body in the bed still looked like he'd been put through the wringer. The tall visitor stood next to the bed for another minute before he cleared his throat and said: "I don't see why talking to comatose people is supposed to be relieving, but I suppose this is the one chance I get to explain what happened to you. Mycroft thinks I owe you this, so if you can actually hear me, you should listen closely now, considering how unobservant you usually are. All of what happened to you is Moriarty's doing. I've been right in suspecting him, but ever since he left Hogwarts, it was increasingly hard to keep track of him." The visitor stopped briefly, as if he was thinking of what else he could say, and then straightened his back. "I think the convention is to say that I hope you get well soon. Goodbye, John."

And with that, he left the motionless patient in the bed.

Half an hour later, the boy's left hand twitched, the alarm (a modification of the Caterwauling Charm) cast around John's bed went off and a horde of Healers apparated into the room within seconds, while John suddenly bolted upright in his bed with a scream.

X

_~~Prior~~ _

_John's head was buzzing from his collision with the wall, but he struggled back on his feet – or, well, paws - as fast as he could. The two wizards were standing over his mother when he flung to the first one again, and for a moment, no one could tell where the wizard ended, where John began and what they were doing, since the two of them were rolling over the floor, biting and punching and clawing and pushing._

_A sound from the door, however, made them stop in their tracks, John's mother whimpered in relief and the second wizard froze when John's father, his gun leveled, appeared in the broken threshold. "Let my wife and my son go. Immediately."_

_John wanted to warn his father, but he knew he would never be able to transform back into a human fast enough and he howled when the first wizard tightened his grip around his dog head and the second wizard started to grin. "Or what, Muggle?"_

_Mr. Watson was fast, he'd fired two bullets within a split-second, but it was to no avail because the second wizard had already conjured up a shield and now grinned menacingly before calling out "OBLIVIATE!"_

_The charm hit John's father right in the chest and the force send him stumbling backwards, face strangely expressionless and one hand ghosting over his heart as if he didn't understand what had happened. Then, he toppled over._

_Mary sobbed loudly and John growled before yanking his head free and snapping at the first wizard's throat, but another Stunning Spell hit him in the side and he was sent to the feet of his mother. The two attackers slowly came closer while John did his best to concentrate on turning back into a human. He managed just in time and when the two wizards lifted their wands, he pushed himself off the ground again and tackled them both, causing a momentarily confusion during which he yelled: "GET MY WAND FROM MY ROOM, MUM!"_

_You had to give Mary credit for not just sitting there helplessly, but actually scrambling to her feet and fleeing up the stairs and to her son's room._

_In the meantime, the two wizards gave John hell, but for every physical punch they landed, John struggled back twice as hard and as the third stunning spell of the day hit him, he felt the blackness seep through his brain but fought it with all the strength he had left. Staggering backwards, he almost collided with his mum who thrust his wand into his hands._

_He shook his head to clear it and then called "WINGARDIUM LEVIOSA!" to send the knives on the counter in the kitchen behind the two wizards up in the air and rapidly coming towards them. The wizard who had attacked his father got stabbed into his thigh, but managed to escape the other knives, while the wizard who was already bleeding heavily from his shredded arm and several other bruises and bite marks from his struggle with John got two – admittedly rather small – knives into his back and fell to his knees._

"_RUN, MUM!" John called out, panting heavily, but Mary was frozen in spot and John had to push her out of the way when the wizard with the knife in the thigh fired another Memory Charm at her. John winced when he sent his mum to the ground, but it was necessary and the push seemed to startle her out of her panic. "I can't leave you here, John, I-"_

_John howled in frustration and stared at her pleadingly. "The Ministry will be hear any moment, I'm not allowed to use magic, they'll be here soon, you just need to-"_

_He never finished the sentence because with a grunted "Crucio!" the wizard whom John had attacked so intensely, cursed the Gryffindor and the unbearable pain seeping through his body deleted every coherent thought._

_It would be a lie to say that he'd never been in such pain before in his life, because this was exactly how the basilisk venom had felt, but this time around, there was no Sherlock to safe him and it wasn't like there was an antidote for the Cruciatus Curse anyways, so all John could do was writhe in pain, scream and fight against the Curse – but to no avail._

_After seconds – minutes? Hours? – the wizard finally let go and John didn't even feel the collision of two more Stunning Spells into his chest and stomach anymore, when he slid down the wall, bruised, cut open, aching and barely breathing. He felt the rough carpet on his cheek as he cracked one eye open and tried to reach out for his wand, but his fingers were crushed by a heavy boot and his throat, which was raw from screaming, simply couldn't manage more than a choked rattle. Tears swam in his eyes and the last thing he saw before darkness swallowed him was how the Memory Charm hit his terrified mother in the chest._

X

Sherlock never went back to see John again. He saw him often enough as it was, in the night, when he was asleep and dreaming. His mind had observed and saved all the information it could get upon seeing John's wounds and Sherlock had a pretty clear idea on what had happened and his dreams, he relived everything as if he was a silent watcher in the corner.

Not even potions guaranteed him a dreamless sleep anymore and with his increasing hatred towards sleep, his mood sunk even more.

Mycroft kept him informed on everything that was going on although he hadn't asked for it and never thanked his brother, mind you. The attack on John's family had been right at the beginning of the holidays and John woke up one and a half week later, in the early morning hours after the Holmes' visit at St. Mungo's.

Apparently he'd manage to knock over two Healers in his struggle of demanding answers as to what had happened before they could tranquilise him again and upon learning about the state of his parents, who didn't recognize him obviously and were basically on a brain level with a new-born, he stopped eating and talking for almost two weeks.

His sister was found eventually, she'd been out of the country with her girlfriend, and it was the lie she told her parents so that she could go away for a holiday trip with Clara that had ultimately saved her. Mycroft instantly put her under surveillance and although no-one thought it was a good idea, John was released from St. Mungo's one week before the end of the holidays to live with his sister. Harry didn't talk to him, in fact she blamed him and the whole Wizarding world on the happenings, but it didn't matter because John was a wreck himself.

Sherlock felt cold sweat forming on the back of his neck and quickly grabbed one of the small vials he'd prepared earlier that day. As he emptied it with a slightly trembling hand, everything became pleasantly fuzzy and indifferent.

X

John limped into his room and shut the door, trying to block out Harry's slurs. She was drunk more often than sober, she blamed him for everything and the nasty little voice in his head knew she was right.

He sat down on his bed, willing his left hand to rest calmly on his thigh and sighed. His eyes fell on the letter from Hogwarts, the first page being the usual 'welcome-back-you'll-need-this-and-that' blahblah and the second letter, as if to mock him, a congratulation letter announcing him Prefect of Gryffindor House. The shiny, golden pin was resting next to it and when it had arrived, John had thought about simply sending it back. But now, two days later, it was still lying on his nightstand.

He'd never felt less willing to go back to Hogwarts, to the whispers and the pity and the nosy people, but he didn't really have much of a choice and although he hated himself for thinking so, he was glad that he would be away from Harry's accusations.

With one last look at the pin, he lay back on his bed and hoped that whoever or whatever was up there would have mercy on him for once. But of course that didn't happen and his dreams, like every night, alternated between reliving the day of the attack and pictures of a large spider in the middle of a net, a spider with Jim Moriarty's laughing face.


	14. Time of Doom - Part III: Fifth Year

To say that being back at Hogwarts was not as bad as he'd expected it to be would've been a great big lie. Because it was.

John managed to get into a department in the Hogwarts Express with Greg, Mike, Zack and Alec this time, but seeing all the parents bidding their children farewell made his heart beat faster and an icy cold spread inside his body. Thankfully, his friends did a good job of distracting him and although he didn't say much – he never did, not since the attack – the train ride was okay.

However, as soon as they had reached the castle and sat down at the Gryffindor table, he could hear the whisper starting, faces turning towards him, eyes trying to catch a look on him and fingers being pointed. The attack had been all over the Daily Prophet, and the newspapers could obviously not decide whether they wanted to depict him as a tragic hero or the victim of a vicious attack, so they did both, in turns, and the people talking about him were divided in the tragic-hero and the pity-the-victim groups.

His duties as Prefect made it impossible to just stay for himself, though, and, with a steely look in his eyes, he lead the new First Years through the castle after the feast, trying to ignore their curious looks and instead explaining to them what they needed to know.

The weekdays were worst. Wherever he went, he heard people talking about him and not even the combined effort of Greg and the rest of his dorm helped in shutting them up. John simply didn't talk much, didn't react if someone asked him about what had happened or worse, how he was doing.

What did they expect to hear, after all? That he was doing fine? How could he, with his parents being brainless vegetable and his sister constantly drunk and blaming him? How was he supposed to be fine when his whole world was shattered, when he was just an empty shell roaming the halls of Hogwarts because he felt like the loneliest person on the planet?

Things between him and Sarah, were, well… on ice, and he strongly suspected that she didn't know how to deal with him being non-respondent. She'd tried to visit him in Hospital, but he had been awful company – understandable. The only one who basically visited every day was Greg, and he was the one who convinced John to start eating again after almost two weeks of self-starvation. He was there when John visited his parents, and when he was finally allowed home. He had gotten the school stuff from Diagon Alley for John and he was always by John's side.

In the night, when he couldn't sleep, John found himself trying to feel thankful for Greg, but as much as he did, it was just wrong. Because there was someone else who should've been at his side, and he simply wasn't.

During his many moments of silence, when John wouldn't talk, simply didn't know what to say, Greg would just talk about random things, and, after a while, about Sherlock. Sherlock, who was doing badly. Who was being bullied worse than before. Who was getting into more and more trouble. But John had his own life to worry about, and Sherlock had made clear he didn't want him in his life.

When the time for Quidditch practice came around, John didn't feel like going. The Firebolt who had already reminded him of Sherlock last year was now even more present than before, and John had started to spend as much time as possible away from people. That had shocked almost everyone, because all the students remembered John as the amicable, social boy who was friendly to everyone and while he wasn't necessary unfriendly, he just shut himself off all the time now. However, Greg convinced him to go down to the field and after a moment of awkward silence, Capper (who had cocked up his N.E.W.T.s and had to repeat the Seventh Year) clapped him on the back and told him: "Good to have you here." And when he was finally up in the air again, the cold wind cutting into his cheeks, John felt like he could breathe freely for the first time.

There was a change in how John played Quidditch now. Had he been an extraordinary Keeper before the fatal summer holidays and rarely let a Quaffle through, he now protected the goal posts ferociously, not even giving the Chasers a chance to come close but rather snatching the Quaffle out of their hands before they could attempt to throw. Not a single Quaffle passed him in the first month of training, and on the match Slytherin vs. Gryffindor, days after his 16th birthday, the opposite team almost teared up in frustration when they couldn't get past John, while the Gryffindor Chasers dumped the Quaffle through the three goal rings of Slytherin again and again. In the end, they won the game with a spectacular score of 560 to 0, after almost four hours of gameplay and the crowd cheered for John like they always had. From then on, the whisper in the hallways died down almost completely and people talked about John's Keeper abilities with adoration in their voices which was definitely more welcome than the gossip, but made not much difference to John, who continued his quiet solitude.

X

Greg never showed his exhaustion. The Fifth Year already took its toll since the professors did their best to prepare them for their O.W.L.s at the end of the school year, and in addition to that, he kept a close eye on John and an even closer eye on Sherlock.

Upon hearing that John was in hospital, he had immediately rushed over, only to find his mate in a deep coma, looking like hell. The Healers had told him everything and Greg came every day, sitting next to John, until he woke up. The half-mad shell of his dorm-mate was hard to look at when he had woken up, but Greg quickly realized that John needed someone around. Naturally, that someone should've been Sherlock (although Greg couldn't see the Slytherin sitting at John's bedside all day – he'd probably have talked him into roaming the hospital stealing samples of body parts and all kind of liquids), but Greg did his best to fill in those shoes.

After he watched the self-destruction of John for two weeks, he used the same powers he had used with Sherlock on John and finally made him self-aware again, forced food into him and supported him as much as he could. He'd never wanted to be the nurse for two complete wrecks, but he knew without a doubt that John would've done the same for him and he at least hoped Sherlock would show some form of compassion if something happened to him – be it only so he could look at illness symptoms of Greg or whatever.

And while John slowly recovered and at least pretended he was better, Sherlock, whom Greg hadn't seen or heard from over the summer break, continued his circle of drugging, shouting at Greg, getting into trouble and drugging himself again as if there hadn't been a summer in between – with the exception that the delirious talks now contained John more often than before and he got more violent when Greg tried to calm him down.

Mycroft, Sherlock's creepy older brother, had done nothing to make Greg feel calmer when he'd abducted him and told him he would do 'everything to keep his younger brother safe' – he'd sounded like a madman and Greg had asked himself once more why he still hung around Sherlock bloody Holmes.

But then he remembered the helplessness that somehow overcame Sherlock when he was off his head and couldn't form coherent sentences anymore, and Greg remembered.

On the evening before John's 16th birthday, Greg had found John sitting on his bed, staring into the distance vacantly and had already started to back away slowly because he didn't want to disturb him, when the blond turned around and gave Greg a small smile.

"Did I ever thank you?"

Greg felt how his cheeks flushed a bit and he rubbed his neck. Neither John nor Sherlock ever had, but he just knew – at least in John's case – that he was appreciated and after all, he didn't do this to get thanks, but because he cared for them and he felt the need to watch out for them. He couldn't very well say 'No you haven't' though, so he shifted uncomfortably and finally settled on: "No worries, mate."

John rolled his eyes and something like a smile tugged at the corners of his lips – it was the first since the attack. "I'm serious. Thank you, Greg. What you're doing for me and… and for him, it's more than we deserve."

"You're like my family, and family cares for each other, right?" Greg replied, too late realizing that maybe talking about family was not the smart thing to do, but John for once didn't seem to mind. Instead, he nodded thoughtful and then sighed. "Fancy something to eat? I mean, before this turns into a soap opera of sorts."

Greg gladly accepted, happy that John had suggested food by himself for once instead of being dragged to lunch or supper – and besides, he was right: this was getting a bit touchy-feely.

John's 16th birthday was spent quiet, but Greg though it was great that neither Sherlock did something extremely stupid that day nor John had some sort of breakdown, so that was progress. And of course, the incredibly win at Quidditch – the infamous match against Slytherin - days later also helped quite a bit.

Something that was even good for his school work was the fact that Greg got quite adapt at the Muffliato Charm, which he, unbeknown to John, cast every night around his friend's bed to dim the screams of his nightmares. Waking John had proven to be a stupid idea because he was embarrassed after and didn't go back to sleep, so Greg opted for the – admittedly unorthodox – option of silencing John's screams to the ears of the rest of his dorm.

After particularly bad nights, John would often transform into his dog form and disappear into the Forbidden Forest, how Greg found out after following him one day, but seeing as he always came back in one piece and was probably safer as a dog than as a human, Greg decided to let him go.

X

Even John, although staying for himself a lot of time, noticed that something seemed to be off with Alec lately. The youngest of the Gryffindor Fifth Years was twitchy and often found staring off into the distance. Zack and Greg had decided to confront their dorm mate one evening and even though John hadn't actively planned on participating, he _did_ want to know what was up and he was concerned. And so the four of them were sitting on Alec's bed one night, waiting for him to finish in the bathroom. His eyes nearly popped out of their sockets when he found them waiting for him and Zack seemed to realize that maybe they looked a bit intimidating, staring at him, so he hissed: "Try smiling!" while Alec slowly backed away.

"What's - uhm what's going on?" he asked, tugging at one of his strawberry blond curls that were still damp from the shower.

"You might want to sit down," Zack offered and John found himself reminded of old Mafia films - clearly, Alec was feeling the same and only reluctantly came closer.

"Don't worry, we just want to ask you something," Mike explained in his calm way and smiled as to reassure Alec.

"What do you want?"

"We're just worried about you," Greg told him. "You're a bit weird lately - is everything alright?"

"I'm fine..." Alec told them, not really convincingly, and shifted uncomfortably.

"Seriously, you can tell us, you know? Do you have trouble with your sister again?" Zack insisted.

"It's nothing," Alec said with emphasis. "Just leave me alone!"

"Well, then why are you so shifty all the time? And you start stuttering as soon as we talk about the girls," Zack told him, eyes narrowed down.

"I'm telling you, it's nothing," Alec reaffirmed and made a weak move to shoo them away from his bed. As he let his gaze roam over his friends, his eyes connected with John and suddenly, John understood what was going on.

It was almost as if a tiny voice _(SherlockSherlockSherlock)_ whispered it into his ear, and he had no real clue why he knew it, but he knew it was true. However, it was not his position to blurt this out and so he gave Alec a slight nod and only said: "Well if he says it's nothing it's alright, I suppose."

The others looked confused at John, who apparently just wanted to give up, but when he ignored them and simply made his way over to his bed as an indicator that this brief intervention was over, they slowly and unwillingly followed his example. Alec sat down on his own bed and John watched him closely, smiling a bit to himself when the younger boy sighed and called out: "Actually, guys, uhm… there _is_ something I need to tell you…"

Everyone looked at each other and they slowly came back to Alec, who had by now flushed in a deep shade of red. "I think- I mean, I am into-" he broke off, obviously annoyed at himself for not being able to form a coherent sentence and also because he seemed highly uncomfortable with the situation, and then made a grumbling sound before telling them: "IwantedtotellyouthatI'mgay."

That statement didn't have its desired effect – or any effect at all – though, because it was simply too fast to understand so Mike asked confusedly: "You what?"

However, having said it once had made it easier for Alec to repeat himself and he said quietly: "I wanted to tell you that I'm… gay."

"That was… unexpected," Greg finally managed as a response, looking taken aback, but not negatively so.

"No it wasn't-" Zack argued back. "I always thought he might be gay, you know, from the way he looks- no offense," he added, with a look at Alec, whose eyes narrowed down.

"How exactly do I not take offense in that? What does that even mean?"

"Don't listen to him," John said softly and glanced at Zack. "Just because _he_ doesn't know how a hairbrush works doesn't mean everyone who does is gay. That _is_ a bit offensive, Zack, you know?"

Zack shrugged – they all knew he rarely thought about anything before saying it and he never meant anything offensive, even if he sometimes sounded that way. The line between offensive and not-offensive was a bit blurred in his mind.

Alec still made a face, but when Greg got back to the topic on hands, he turned towards the Beater.

"Since when have you... you know, _known_ it?"

"I guess… I've always known in a way but… with everything that happened with my sister, you know, when Sherlock-" Alec interrupted himself and quickly glanced at John, who pretended to be indifferent to the mention of the name, "when he found out about my sister's ex-boyfriend cheating on her with a boy, she got… pretty upset and I couldn't talk to her or my parents so I sort of kept it to myself…" He smiled sadly. "I figured I owe you guys the truth in case you're… bothered by this," he made a vague gesture with his hands.

The protests that came instantly from his four dorm-mates were crushing, though, and between puffs and nudges, they reassured him that they were absolutely fine with him – why wouldn't they be, after all?

"Does that mean you think I'm attractive now?" Zack asked at some point and batted his eyelashes, while the others, including Alec groaned loudly.

"I'm gay, not blind, you know? Or desperate, for that matter," Alec then retorted and the other's burst into laughter while Zack was busy being fake-hurt and fainted dramatically, clutching one hand to his heart. They spent the rest of the night sort of celebrating Alec's bravery with sweets from Honeydukes and five bottles of Butterbeer that Mike had kept for a special occasion.

The five of them had learnt today that bravery not always meant facing enemies or being strong - sometimes, it just meant opening oneself up to their friends.

X

After Alec's outing, the rest of the term passed by quickly, it already being mid-November when that had happened and soon December with its icy cold, the snow and Christmas time came around.

When Professor McGonagall had collected the names of those who would be going home for Christmas, John, for the first time, had not raised his hand and after arguing with Greg, who offered to stay at Hogwarts with him, he'd managed to convince everyone that he would be fine at school and the others had reluctantly signed up to go home.

It was only now that John waved at Greg and his friends one last time as they were being carried down to Hogsmeade Station in the carriages that the realization truly hit him. It would be his first Christmas at Hogwarts, his first Christmas without his parents or sister – and the second Christmas without Sherlock.

John tucked himself into his winter cloak and went for a walk over the snow-covered school grounds. He had learned to live with the fact that his parents weren't really his parents anymore, didn't even remember their own names and couldn't eat without help over the past few months, but he felt tears rising in his eyes at the thought of never spending a nice, normal Christmas with them. He missed Harry, too, but she was still blaming him and well, he couldn't blame her for that, so it seemed best to leave her alone.

He passed the Whomping Willow, with its branches shivering slightly in the cold, and tried to remember when the next full moon was. It seemed like years ago that he and Sherlock had discovered the hidden pathway under the tree, although it was only a bit more than 14 months ago, and the thought of the boy he had considered his best friend sent another pang to his heart, in addition to the pain he felt when thinking about his parents. Except that he at least saw Sherlock sometimes, wandering the hallways, or in classes. And he knew what the Slytherin was doing – Greg told him, and despite how much he acted like he didn't care, he wanted nothing more than to punch some sense into Sherlock, scream at him for being so stupid, swear at him and then resume their friendship, but Sherlock had just used him, had lied to him, had manipulated him. John's trust was broken because of this abuse of his loyalty and nothing would make this better.

When the sun set and the sky got dark, John made his way back to the castle and roamed the strangely empty hallways until late that evening. Finally back in the almost empty common room – only some seventh graders and two first year girls from Gryffindor had remained at the castle – he went to bed, trying to ignore the empty beds all around him.

X

Instead of going down for the Christmas Feast, John cuddled up in his warmest, coziest jumper and went for a walk through the castle. Many of the portraits were having guests over and they cheerfully wished him 'Merry Christmas' when he passed them, which he replied, even if a bit less cheerful. Sometimes they made him stop for a talk and he happily obliged, glad for the distraction – and really, talking to them was not too bad. He heard some interesting and funny stories and by the time he felt hungry, he realized it was past noon. He excused himself from a tea party with four witches and decided to go back to the common room to have some cookies.

The stairs seemed to be in a especially festive mood, however, and instead of taking him straight to where he needed to go, they did two rotations every time he climbed another set of them and he ended up on the seventh floor, but in a corridor he'd never been before.

It was apparently the Left Corridor of the Seventh Floor and John eyed the tapestry and portraits interestedly as he walked by. He did a double take at the incredibly horrendous tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy who tried to teach ballet to some trolls and had to chuckle at the ridiculous depiction, when he noticed something from the corner of his eyes.

A small wooden door had appeared at the wall next to the tapestry and John could've sworn that it hadn't been there seconds before. He thought about just leaving it be, but soon his curiosity was piqued and with one last look down the corridor to where it lead to the portrait of the Fat Lady, he pushed the door open and stepped through.

It was like nothing he had ever seen. Behind the door lay an enormous hall, with pillars from the floor up to the ceiling and staircases leading to different floors. Everything was made from black marble, but although there were no torches to be seen, it wasn't dark – the light seemed to just _be there_. For anyone else, this hall might have been hard to comprehend, since it was much larger than the room behind the door could possibly be, simply because the seventh floor left corridor was located at the Grand Staircase Tower outer wall, but who was John to argue with Hogwarts' magical room sizes?

He made a few tentative steps into the middle of the hall where he turned around, eyeing all the different staircases before choosing one at random. He followed the heavy marble stairs up until he was standing on some sort of gallery. There was a simple, elegant beauty to the whole – room? Castle? The word that came to John's mind was _palace_; a palace inside Hogwarts castle, and he was sure that he'd never heard of it before. He decided to follow one of the corridors and soon came to a door with a label on it. John took out his wand, mumbled "Lumos" and held it closer to the door until he could read 'Mathematics'.

Maybe this part of the castle was an old part from times where Hogwarts also taught Muggle classes like maths? Was that possible? Now John regretted that he'd slept through so many History of Magic classes.

The door didn't seem to be too interesting, though, since John had never been overly fond of math, and so he decided to keep on walking until he found something more interesting. He came past some other doors, one of them labeled 'French', which seemed a bit odd, but not overly so, until he reached another set of stairs, this time leading down.

He followed them and reached a darker part of the palace-inside-the-castle, with one door at the very end of the corridor labeled 'Astronomy'. Behind it, there was noise being heard and John called out a few times before trying the door and finding it locked. Just when he decided that this corridor was boring and turned to leave again, a low rumble started all around him and suddenly dust came from the ceiling. His head shot up, just in time to witness how a large crack appeared on the marble on the ceiling and then the first chunks came raining down – he didn't lose time and simply threw himself forward, running as fast as he could while behind him, the whole corridor leading to the door collapsed. He had reached the stairs and already was up halfway when he dared to turn around and saw that the destruction seemed to stop right at the foot of the stairs. There were marble shards and dust everywhere and an enormous noise from the collapsing, but it stopped right at the stairs, as if being held back by an invisible wall.

John watched the destruction for a few minutes before making his way up the stairs again, down the corridor, past the 'Mathematics' door and, after a quick moment of consideration, down another hallway. He followed that one for quite some time without seeing any doors, before he reached a large, double-winged door labeled 'West Wing'. With a shrug, he pushed it open and found himself on a small balcony overlooking a gigantic hall, designed very much alike to the entrance hall, but with letters carved into the black marble on the floor, perfectly readable from his heightened position. And what he read put him on alert.

There, on the deep black floor, in large, loopy, white letters, was carved

_John Watson_

He hurried down the spiral staircase connected to the balcony quickly and, having reached the ground floor, stepped into the middle of the hall, now too close to the letters to be able to read them, but from his new point of view, he noticed several doors leading away. He got out his wand again, simply because he had a weird feeling about the whole Wing, seeing as there was his own bloody name engraved in the floor and walked to the door closest to him.

It read 'Gryffindor', but when John tried to open it, it didn't budge and not even the Unlocking Charm helped. Slowly, he made his way around the large hall, passing many doors, all locked, and all labeled with something regarding John's life. 'Quidditch'. 'Harriet'. 'Animagus'. There were more detailed doors, though, too. 'Smell'. 'Laughter'. 'Anger'.

John burnt to know what was lying behind them and got increasingly frustrated when they wouldn't open, until he threw his hands in the air in surrender and called out: "Alright. I give up." Obviously, no one answered, and with an annoyed huff, he limped straight across his name and back to the spiral staircase. He was quite exhausted after climbing it again and when he finally shut the door labeled 'West Wing', he leaned against it and paused for a moment.

And that's when he heard the music.

He hesitated only for the shortest of moments, because he wasn't sure whom he would find and if that somebody was friendly or not and his heart started beating faster and he started sweating when the familiar panic rose, the panic he felt ever since the attack in summer, whenever he knew someone was coming towards him but was still hidden, or when, like now, he knew someone was there but he couldn't see them. Gripping his wand tighter, he shook his head and willed his breathing to even out a bit, until his heart beat regained a somewhat normal pace again and the fear that had him frozen on the spot disappeared.

The music seemed to get louder or quieter at random and soon John was completely lost in the maze of corridors and staircases, not sure if he'd ever find out again, but pulled towards the invisible source of music like a dog on a leash – pun not intended.

When he finally stopped, he was in a dark part of the maze again, but at least the ceiling didn't start to crack like it had before. The music came from behind a door with an unreadable label and only when he leant closer, he was able to make out the three words written in the same loopy handwriting his own name had been written on the floor back in the West Wing. 'The Great Game'.

John jumped back from the door as if it was conducting electricity. He knew who was waiting behind that door, and he knew that he should've turned around and just left, he should've tried to find his way out again, he should've gone to the common room and forgot about this strange palace. This mind palace.

But instead, he turned the knob on the door and, bracing himself, pushed it open.

X

"Interesting," Sherlock stated, stopped his violin playing and cocked his head, eyes strangely absent. "That hasn't happened before."

John honestly didn't know what to say. He stared at the boy he'd thought had been his best friend for almost four years and who now looked like a shadow of the boy he'd been before. Sherlock was dressed sloppily in trousers and a purple dress shirt, his hair was a bit longer than usual and kept falling into his forehead in unruly ringlets, casting shadows over the pale skin of his face. His eyes lay deep in their sockets, with dark shadows below them and if it was possible, he looked even thinner than usual.

John knew that he didn't look too good, either, with his limp, the tremor in his hand, the bags under his eyes and the sad expression that sat on his face when he was alone. He was scarred, physically and emotionally, but in comparison to the strange look in Sherlock's eyes, he considered himself almost healthy. Sherlock looked as if he was completely lost, stared at him as if he couldn't trust his own eyes but at the same time didn't bother.

"_He's taking these weird potions, you know, drugging himself-"_

Greg's words, listened to unintentionally, but impossible to be ignored, sounded through his head.

So that's what a drug addict looked like.

"I honestly thought you'd talk more. My mind seems to get you wrong." Sherlock still sounded interested, although his face was very blank, not showing if he was excited-interested or terrified-interested or something else.

Finally, John managed something intelligible. "What?"

Sherlock's eyes scanned him quickly; John knew the process, it was painfully familiar, and then, suddenly, when realization seemed to hit him, the Slytherin tensed up. "You're real, aren't you? What are you doing in here?"

John couldn't think of a single thing to say. He'd often wondered what he'd say to Sherlock if he got the chance again. But now, with an obviously drugged and mad Sherlock right in front of him, he couldn't remember. He didn't even know why they didn't talk anymore. Everything was just so right, the moment he'd stepped into the room and Sherlock had looked up.

"Uhm… yes, I'm real? I walked through this door and ended up in here…" John trailed off again, not sure why he was even explaining himself. He decided to take another route. "Where are we? Why is there a room with my name on the floor? And the door – it says' 'The Great Game'-" he realized he was getting worked up a bit and tried to calm down again, pressing his hand against his thigh to steady it. "It's like… our lives are in here, somehow. Everything we experienced!"

"My life, not our lives," Sherlock snapped and sat the violin, which he was still holding in his hands, down on a sofa behind him. He was still unsure of what John was doing here and the realization that John was right, that actually most of this space was indeed _their _lives because there was not much Just-Sherlock of importance. "We're in the Room of Requirement, or Come-And-Go-Room, which resembles what the witch or wizard needs most. It's my mind palace, and you have no right to be here."

"I'm sorry, but I didn't see the signs reading 'John Watson please keep out'," John snapped, but then sighed. "This is really your mind palace? Do you know that it's dangerous in here?"

That seemed to catch Sherlock's attention, so John continued: "I was in this corridor with the 'Astronomy' door and then it just collapsed. I had to run so I wouldn't be smashed by the ceiling coming down on me."

For a split-second, something washed over Sherlock's face that looked a lot like amusement, but then he threw his head back and waved his hand, claiming: "I told you I could delete things. No need for astronomy."

And John just had to laugh. Sherlock's head whipped around when he heard it, but John didn't stop himself. This was just such a _Sherlock_ thing to say that, momentarily, he forgot that they weren't friends anymore, that he was supposed to be mad and angry at the Slytherin, and just laughed deeply. It was the first time since the summer holidays, and it was a strange feeling, but it was also very relieving.

"You're supposed to hate me."

Sherlock sounded unsure, for the first time, and John stopped laughing and looked at the other boy, who clearly tried to see past his drugged state and understand what was going on.

"You too. And yet here we are, talking," John said mildly and slowly stepped a bit closer. Sherlock watched him with hawk eyes.

"You broke into my mind palace."

"No, I opened the door that appeared next to me," the Gryffindor corrected. "You're always so insistent on exactness." He looked into Sherlock's eyes with the dilated pupils and made a face. "You shouldn't be drugging yourself."

"Yes, Doctor," Sherlock huffed, but the bitter edge was missing and it came out weaker than he'd intended.

John realized all of the sudden where - or better when – he'd seen Sherlock like this before. At the breakdown, in their third year, almost two years ago. But unlike the last time, he hadn't been around when Sherlock broke, and that's what put the younger boy over the edge, leading to drugs.

"You need to stop this, immediately," John stated firmly and Sherlock immediately crossed his arms in front of his chest, putting on the indifference-mask he was so used to. "That's none of your business."

John could've walked away after that, he could've turned around and left and that would've been it. They would have kept ignoring each other, he'd still be alone and Sherlock would still be taking drugs and living his life, but John was so tired of all of it. Now, so close to Sherlock, talking to him (even if it was more or less a cold exchange of statements) was so familiar and welcome that he knew he needed this back. It was like watching black-and-white TV for a long time and now getting a glance of colour TV, just to know that it would be gone again in a few minutes. And from the state Sherlock was in, (and the fact that Greg had tried talking to him about Sherlock all the time, telling him about his former best friend) John knew that, deep inside, Sherlock felt the same. So deep inside his mind, that it had allowed him into his mind palace when Sherlock clearly hadn't intended to do so.

And over all the anger and broken trust, all the bad feelings, John felt like he had to make it right and the small, broken part in Sherlock that had invited him here and that fled into drug-induced hazes, longed for it just as much. So John smiled weakly, ignored how Sherlock's eyes widened and said:

"I…uhm, I want you to know something. I'm sorry – for everything I said. Last year, I mean. I was just… so angry, you know? Because of what you said about me and Sarah. I never wanted you to change, really. You've got a brilliant mind and it's perfect just the way it is. Please, don't ever be 'normal'." John took a deep breath and felt how his hand was clenching and unclenching, which made him angry all of the sudden. "God, this bloody- you are a dick, you know that, Sherlock?!"

The Slytherin raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment on it.

"You're a great big idiot because you lied at me, you lied straight in my face and you didn't even think about it twice!"

John knew he was acting randomly now, and all his resolutions of making peace with Sherlock were endangered by that because there was no reason to aim his anger at Sherlock when he was just being upset with himself, but it also felt right to yell at Sherlock because no matter how hard it had been for him, it had also been hard for John and he wanted Sherlock to know.

Sherlock tried to speak. "I didn't lie when I told you I didn't have friends-"

"Oh, shut up – no matter how often you tell yourself that, and how often you say that to me, we both know it's not quite true – we're wrecks, Sherlock! I'm fucking done with myself, but you- you're not better! You started doing drugs because you couldn't bear it so kindly shut up and stop telling lies!" John was yelling, but it wasn't so much because of anger but more because of desperation.

He'd though he was doing well, he thought it would get easier, not being friends Sherlock, not seeing him anymore, but this single encounter, in the depths of Sherlock's bloody mind, was enough to bring things up he had tried to ignore. The ache whenever he thought about the adventures they'd been through together. The adoration he felt for the younger boy. The feeling that he could trust Sherlock with his life. The feeling of being complete when they were running about, chased by three-headed dogs, spiders or werewolves.

He'd never gotten the chance to talk about it (admittedly, he had refused the various offers from Greg and the others), but now that he was confronted with Sherlock, who was half-mad, drugged and obviously coping just as badly, and who was still lying him in the face – even now, he couldn't give up the last, tiny strand of hope that maybe they could fix this, maybe they could be _John and Sherlock_ again.

From the looks of it, though, Sherlock didn't seem to be up to that. He rolled his eyes and then 'tsk'-ed. "Are you quite done?" When John could only stare, he nodded. "Good. Because if you would listen to me for just one moment, it would be beneficial." He took a deep breath and suddenly his face twisted as if he was in great discomfort. "I mean what I said to you. I don't have friends-" he looked up and his eyes, strangely raw and shiny, drilled themselves into John's, who found himself unable to look away, waiting for the big boom. And boy, it came, and when it came, it was like someone had knocked the air out of John. He'd not expected that. "I only got one."

John couldn't reply. He simply couldn't. So when nothing came from him, Sherlock continued, now pacing up and down in front of the Gryffindor. "I confronted Moriarty, last year, shortly before Christmas, and you have to understand that we all underestimated him. John, he is smart, so unbelievable smart, and he knew exactly how to threaten me. Admittedly, I didn't plan on that fight at the horrendous party, but then it fit so perfectly." He stopped mid-track to look at John, who wasn't sure if he was actually awake and hearing this or if his imagination was running wild. When he tried to speak, he had to try twice because the first time around, his throat was too scratchy to produce words. Finally, he managed: "It fit perfectly?" in a very monotonous, flat voice.

"I planned to scare you away so you would be safe, so you wouldn't be a target for Moriarty!" Never before had Sherlock's voice sounded so raw, and both, the detective and John were terrified at that. There was still something essential missing, though and John dreaded the words that would follow, somehow guessing what would come. Sherlock looked positively pained by now and through his arms up in desperation before flopping down in the armchair across John. "But it failed, it all went wrong and now you're… I'm so sorry!" Sherlock actually buried his face in his hands.

The Gryffindor wasn't sure what shocked him more – the fact that Sherlock hadn't completed a sentence or that he said he was sorry. The lanky boy looked positively pained now and John instinctively reached out for him, touching the back of his right hand carefully. "Sherlock, please, look at me – what do you mean, it failed? Why are you sorry?"

"Why do you think you got attacked in summer?"

John felt like someone had emptied a bucket full of ice water over his head.

"You have to believe me, I tried to keep you out of this, but obviously it didn't work and I don't understand why and why all of this is so hard-" The Slytherin pulled at his own hair, twisting the curls while he got more and more worked up and his cheeks with the high cheekbones were speckled red.

"Moriarty is behind the attack of my family?" John whispered, eyes fixed on Sherlock, who nodded, pain showing on his face and John was sure he'd never seen the other boy so expressive before in his life. After endless moments, in which Sherlock continued to stare at him from his sunken eyes and he tried to stomach this new piece of information, he got up, straightened his shoulders and said: "I will find him, and when I do, not even a hundred of his punkass minions will be able to stop me."

However, this didn't exactly improve Sherlock's desperate state of mind and the Slytherin's hands closed around John's upper arms like bench vices. "John, you don't understand – it's not going to be so easy, and you can't just try to get to him – you'll be killed and all of this-" he made a vague gesture with one hand, "- will have been for nothing. I can't let you die!"

Immediately after saying this, Sherlock clamped his mouth shut, as if he realized what he had just said, what he had admitted – that he cared about John, deeply. John's features softened and he slowly pried away Sherlock's hand from his arm, lips turned up with the hint of a smile. "I won't. As far as I understand, he tried to get rid of me three times by now and didn't succeed, seeing as I'm still standing here."

"You have an intermitted tremor and a psychosomatic limp, as well as anxiety of some sort. I'd say he damaged you pretty well," Sherlock, obviously not being able to refrain from being obnoxious as he was, stated, but John simply rolled his eyes. God, he had missed this.

"You should've seen the other guy."

A grin spread on Sherlock's face. "Oh, I have - Mycroft took me to examine-" Sherlock stopped, as if suddenly realizing that talking to John about the body of the wizard who'd attacked him and whom he'd wounded so badly that he'd died a few hours later was something not necessarily smart, but apparently the Gryffindor didn't mind so much.

"Then you know what I'm capable of." He looked at Sherlock, suddenly serious. "Sherlock, I'm not mad at you anymore. I just… can we go back to how we were before, please?"

_Posture straight, although he's troubled by the effects of the attack in July. Eyes sunken in, with heavy bags, but shining brightly. Mouth firmly closed. Hands clenched to fists. John's mind is set. _

Sherlock's mind took all of this in and he allowed himself to consider where this would go if he didn't say yes. John would be devastated. He'd leave Sherlock after arguing some more. He'd become bitter and determined to find Moriarty. Moriarty would kill John. Sherlock would know. His inability to delete or ignore everything that was 'John' would make it impossible to function. He'd try to compensate with drugs. Ultimately, he would fail.

Saying the wrong thing now would be the end of both of them sooner or later, Sherlock realized. And so he said the one thing that would turn their fate.

"I- uhm, I'd like that."

The smile that slowly spread on John's face was the thing that would later replay in Sherlock's mind whenever he thought back to that day and then John spread his arms and wrapped them around Sherlock's lean frame, pressing his face into the Slytherin's boney shoulder. Sherlock, somewhat helpless, patted John's back awkwardly until he felt the vibrations of John laughing.

"God, Sherlock, you still have no idea how to hug people, huh?" John's laughter was infecting, and Sherlock felt his own laughter form deep in his chest. Strange – why did he have to laugh when John was clearly mocking him?

An explosion sounded from somewhere far and the ground only shook lightly under their feet, but it was enough to make them both sober up quickly.

"What was that?"

Sherlock cocked his head and closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, they were full of wonder. "I think the West Wing unlocked itself."

"Wait –what? You blew up my wing?!" John asked, remembering exactly how his name was embroidered on the ground in the West Wing. _His wing_.

"Don't be ridiculous. I said unlocked, now, didn't I?" Sherlock gave him a disapproving look. "If I have to teach you to listen closely again, the next weeks will become rather tedious."

"Oi, I'm not your dog, you can't talk to me like that – or teach me stuff," John argued back good-naturedly and punched Sherlock's arm lightly when the Slytherin snorted and said, with a smug look: "Well, I was indeed under the impression that you were my dog, _Animagus_!"

Deciding to go back to the original topic, John then asked: "No, but seriously – this is actually your mind palace? This is what it looks like in your head?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Of course not. This is just the closest the Room of Requirement gets. Keep in mind that the mind palace is just a memory technique. There is no actual palace inside my head."

"But if there was, it would look like this?" John kept nagging, and, after rolling his eyes, Sherlock nodded.

"Since this is the closest visualization, one might think so. I can influence it, make it do what I want, so it does resemble my mind quite closely."

"Could anyone walk in here?" John then asked.

"No. That's why I thought you were a product of my mind first. The Room of Requirement, if handled correctly, can be the safest place in the castle. You just need precise thoughts on what you want it to do."

Both boys knew that this meant if Sherlock had tried to keep everyone outside, something in John had to be special or otherwise he wouldn't have been able to even enter the room or rather mind palace.

Their thoughts were interrupted, though, by a quite loud rumble of John's stomach and he realized that it had been hours since his last meal, seeing as he'd skipped the Feast at lunchtime. "You don't happen to have a kitchen in your mind palace, do you?"

"The Room of Requirement is subject to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration, which means that according to Gamp's First Law, food cannot be produced by the room," Sherlock rattled down, in the voice reserved for deductions and John made a face.

"Then how about we go and get something to eat? You look like you could use food, too," the hungry Gryffindor suggested with a disapproving look to where Sherlock's collar bones clearly stood out against his purple dress shirt.

Sherlock probably gathered breath to argue, but John was having none of it, already back into the familiar – and oh so missed – pattern of ignoring Sherlock's protest when he knew he was right, so he simply pointed his finger at Sherlock and stared him down until the genius huffed and gave in.

"Fine. But I'm not eating Christmas cookies!" John just grinned and started walking towards the door.

With Sherlock by his side, the way back through the mind palace was easy. The Slytherin knew every corner and door – seeing as it was his own mind – and soon they were back in the Entrance Hall.

"One day you have to show me the unlocked West Wing," John suggested and Sherlock stiffened slightly, but nodded vaguely. "One day, maybe."

Both boys hesitated for a moment when they reached the door, as if they feared that if they stepped out of the Room of Requirement, something would go terribly downhill, but Sherlock chastised himself for thinking such ridiculous things and resolutely stepped forwards, yanked the door open and walked out, calling back over his shoulder: "Keep up, John!" And just like that, they were _John and Sherlock_ again. It was truly a Christmas miracle.

X

Had their 'break-up' been spectacular and subject to rumours for weeks, their re-union went down quieter. That was partly due to the fact that it was the Christmas break and there simply weren't enough students around to notice at first, but even when everyone came back, they simply accepted that the freak and John apparently talked again.

The major thing everyone noticed, was that John looked better day by day, and when they first heard him laughing again, everyone believed in a miracle – associating it with Sherlock didn't come to their minds at first, but slowly, they came to terms with the fact that John and Sherlock did bring out the best in each other again.

Greg's reaction was the strongest; John had sent him a quick letter telling him about what had happened because he thought he owed Greg that, and the answer was a threat to both, John and Sherlock's lives that if they 'cocked up again' (Greg's words) he'd personally beat them up with his Beater bat. However, when he arrived back at the castle, all he did was clap John on the back and grin at Sherlock, stating: "Good to see you two together again!" to which Sherlock replied "Oh, sod off, Lestrade," but without menace.

Sherlock looked like hell, which had a lot to do with the fact that John was forcing him into sobering up. While John himself wasn't on top of his game due to his unwillingness to eat or sleep (and his limp and tremor), Sherlock was worse – physically, at least – and the detox was taking its toll. John secretly was glad that Greg was back to help, because while Sherlock had been tolerable during the first week (which was the week they'd spent alone at the castle due to the holidays), everything went downhill in the second week and keeping him away from his drugs was hard.

John couldn't sleep much in the nights, anyways, so he usually stayed with Sherlock during that time, hidden away in the Room of Requirement that had helpfully provided them with comfortable furniture and an adjoining bathroom for when Sherlock, sweating, panting and vomiting, fought his addiction.

When he felt particularly miserable – which was basically all the time – he screamed out his anger, something John had never seen him do before and was quite scary to witness, but apparently the fact that his body's – his transport's – needs were stronger than his will disturbed Sherlock deeply. Mycroft showed his concern by sending John various potions and powders that were supposed to help with Sherlock's withdrawal symptoms and while John didn't know how Mycroft had even heard of their resumed friendship, he gratefully accepted the things.

Between being yelled at by Sherlock, insulted by Sherlock, deduced by Sherlock and holding Sherlock's head while he vomited soundly into the toilet, John realized that he never wanted to go back to his life before this again, and the insults didn't stick and bother him at all, because he knew Sherlock was not meaning them, and that was something worth treasuring.

He even had to laugh when he found Greg sitting on Sherlock's chest one day, a blue eye forming on the Gryffindor's face, but a smug expression overlaying it.

"John, tell this imbecile to let go of me immediately," Sherlock hissed as soon as he saw John coming close and John crossed his arms in front of his chest, eyeing the scenery amusedly. "Greg?" he asked.

"He decided he could do the detox alone, tried to leave, I held him back, he punched me, I sat down on him," Greg explained and wriggled his ass a bit, electing a 'grmph' from Sherlock.

"Lestrade, I swear if you don't move away instantly, I will poison your pumpkin juice and you will die a horrible, slow death," Sherlock threatened, helplessly poking at Greg's back, but in his weakened, skinny state, he wasn't able to move Greg even an inch.

"I'd like to see how you're going to do that from underneath me," Greg replied, ignoring the threat. They'd been hearing too many of them over the past couple of days and they didn't really impress them anymore.

"You can't stay here forever. You'll need to eat and drink and all these dull things," Sherlock countered, trying to look superior but failing miserably due to the large shadows under his eyes and his rough voice from screaming not two hours ago when he felt like he was burning (that was how he'd put it, at least).

"Oh, I can get Greg food and juice," John now offered, knowing that while they kept Sherlock busy with thinking of replies, he was actually distracted from his suffering.

And that was how they spent the majority of January, until Sherlock declared himself that he was done with his detox, wouldn't hear any protests and, indeed, started to look better. John did, too, how Greg noticed with relief, because while he still didn't sleep much, at least he managed about four hours each night, and attended the meals every day. But Hogwarts never got boring and their busy timetables didn't care about if a genius detective needed a detox or a crippled Gryffindor needed recovery time, because it was their Fifth Year, after all, and their O.W.L.s were waiting for them.

The career counseling was set to take place in the last week of March, shortly before Sherlock's birthday, and while the genius didn't feel like participating since he aimed to be a Consulting Detective, something he invented and therefore couldn't possibly be an option at career counseling, he grumpily went to his appointment, since it was obligatory.

The appointments were taking place in the Headmistress' office and John, who was up next, was waiting for Sherlock to finish when his friend exited only ten minutes after going in, declaring with a shrug that Professor McGonagall had allowed him to leave after finding out he was determined to chose his own profession.

"She said you could go in, but you'll have to wait another ten minutes or so for her to finish something – most likely a letter to my parents and Mycroft," Sherlock informed John bored before declaring he was going down to the dungeons and would see him later.

John simply shrugged and went in, finding the main room of the office empty. He considered sitting down and simply waiting for Professor McGonagall to return, but then his curiosity won and he slowly walked past the shelves and cupboards, taking in all the curious things laying there. He did a double take when he walked past a brown, crumbled thing and recognized it as the Sorting Hat, resting on the three-legged stool he usually rested on when being brought out to welcome and sort the new First Years.

Abandoning himself to a sudden impulse, he reached out and carefully grabbed the Hat before pulling it over his head. It was still too big and covered up his eyes a bit, and through the darkness, John asked in his mind: _"Uh… hello?"_

"_John Watson,"_ the deep, creaky voice of the Hat sounded through his head and John smiled.

_"Yes, hello. I was wondering-"_

"_You were wondering if I sorted you into the right house. Tell me in your own words – why do you think Gryffindor was the wrong choice?"_

John was amazed that the Hat know what was troubling him, but then again, he already knew a certain someone who seemed to be able to read his mind – "Don't be ridiculous, John, I'm merely observing, seeing the facts and putting them together!" – so he accepted it quickly. The answer to the Hat's question was difficult, though.

"_You said that I'd fit in every house, and then you let me chose. But if you're letting decide everyone for themselves, ultimately, the sorting is not really based on our character traits, but on our wishes, right?"_ John started and then spoke out what he'd been wondering for quite some time now. _"But if _you_ had to decided, where would you have put me?"_

The Hat was silent for a while and John feared he had just… gone to sleep or whatever, but then he voice answered, words chosen carefully_. "The tendencies towards one House usually already show the person's character traits best. In your case, however, you didn't decide based on your tendency, but on the simple decision that you wanted to go where your friends went."_ He was quiet for a moment before he added. _"Hufflepuff would have been a great choice for you. Your loyalty is your greatest character treat, before your bravery. You're not brave all the time. You're brave when you have to, and this is linked to your loyalty."_

"_So… Hufflepuff would've been a better choice for me?"_ John asked, nodding at the Hat's words.

"_No, Mr. Watson. The best choice is always the one you make for yourself. Ask young Mr. Holmes, if you want to. He is just as much of a Slytherin as you are of a Gryffindor. But ultimately, both of you are true Gryffindor's and Slytherin's at heart, because that's what you chose." _And with that, the Hat went silent again and somehow, John knew their talk was over. His head was still swimming from what he'd been told, but he carefully sat the Hat back on his stool and took a seat against Professor McGonagall's desk, just in time when the Headmistress came in and gave him a short nod before sitting down, too.

X

"Mr. Watson, becoming a Healer is a respectable choice but…" Professor McGonagall looked like she wasn't sure how to put it and John tightened his left hand to a fist, toughening himself for what he'd already expected to come. Finally, the Professor spoke up again. "You do understand that there is no chance for you to find a cure for your parents' condition, right?" She watched him closely and he had to swallow the lump in his throat before he was able to respond.

"I do. I, uhm, I do understand that, but I wanted to become a Doctor ever since I was a kid, and that hasn't changed."

The Professor studied him intently, and nodded when she came to some sort of decision. "In that case – congratulations. It is rare that someone your age already knows with such a certainty what he wants. Aside from Mr. Holmes, I suppose." Her eyebrows furrowed for a moment, obviously when she thought back to Sherlock's counseling before, and John had to grin.

"To become a Healer you need Exceeds Expectations in the N.E.W.T.s for Potions, Transfiguration, Herbology, Charms and Defense Against the Dark Arts, which means that you'll need the same grades for your O.W.L.s in the respective subjects, too, plus one Acceptable in one of your other subjects."

John sighed heavily. He'd known that, just like if you wanted to study Medicine in the Muggle world, you needed amazing grades to become a Healer in the Wizarding world, but EEs in all his major subjects were pretty hard to achieve. McGonagall seemed to sense how overwhelmed he was and she gave him one of her rare smiles. "Don't worry, Mr. Watson, I should think that this is manageable for you – if you spent more nights studying instead of wandering off with young Mr. Holmes, that is."

The Gryffindor flushed in embarrassment, but nodded and got up when the Headmistress signed the note that showed that he had attended his counseling session. He was already halfway out of the door when she called after him. "I'm sure I can expect you to give an outstanding performance in the match against Hufflepuff next week?" To which John send back a grin and nodded again before finally leaving.

X

They were lying on the soft grass again, in the same position as almost two years ago, spread like starfish under a blue sky. John was still in his Quidditch gear after stomping the Hufflepuff team into the ground with a score of 230 to 0 but John didn't feel exactly like celebrating so he'd just disappeared with Sherlock after the game and now they were back in their old spot, watching the clouds.

"Am I allowed to-"

"No," Sherlock cut him off.

"But it's your birthday!" John protested. He'd wanted to congratulate Sherlock all day, but there had been no time as of yet and now that there was, he didn't feel like letting go of the topic. It just felt weird knowing that it was someone's birthday and not saying something about it, even if it was Sherlock.

"That is no reasonable motivation and you know it. I was born today 16 years ago, what is the matter with that?"

John sighed and turned his head to look at Sherlock instead of the clouds. In the warm light of almost-April sun, John felt strange. The light shone brightly on Sherlock's dark, glossy curls (which were back at a reasonable length again), painting light reflexes on his head and the symmetric features of his face with the high cheekbones and the cupid's bow. With his ridiculously long coat, the expensive dress-shirts he tended to wear beneath the school jumpers and the dark trousers, John could easily understand why many of the girls – and some boys – did a double take when Sherlock passed them. He looked beautiful in the sun an-

Wait a moment. When did he start thinking of Sherlock in terms of beautiful?

"What's the matter?" Sherlock startled him out of his contemplation and John quickly put on a neutral face, refraining from teasing Sherlock that he couldn't read him, because for once, he was glad that Sherlock asked and hadn't simply deduced. That would've been highly embarrassing.

"Nothing. I was just wondering… The Sorting Hat told me to ask you where he wanted to sort you, back in our First Year." That wasn't technically a lie – and a much safer thing to say than to explain to Sherlock why John had to fight the urge to reach out and run his fingers through Sherlock's hair.

"When did you talk to it?" Sherlock was sitting up halfway now, propped up on one elbow so he could stare at John. His interest was obvious.

"Back at the career counseling. I was waiting for Professor McGonagall and put him on because-"

"Because you were worried if his decision to put you into Gryffindor had been correct," Sherlock finished for him, watching from narrowed eyes.

John raised his eyebrow. "Do you want to tell the rest or can I?"

The Slytherin rolled his eyes. "Oh, please, go on." He looked amused, though.

"He told me he would've sorted me into Hufflepuff if I hadn't interfered, and that you chose Slytherin for yourself, too."

"Ah, I see." Sherlock snorted and lay back again, ripping out a handful of grass. "The Hat wanted to put me into Ravenclaw, without doubt because of my intellect, but I started discussing with him and in the end, I put myself into Slytherin, if only to avoid trouble with my beloved brother – after all, the whole family has been in Slytherin and so on." Sherlock's voice had dropped into boredom at his last words and it was clear that he didn't really care about his family, but his indifference towards the houses had led him to a decision that was convenient.

"So, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw then?" John asked, smiling lightly. "I wonder if something would've gone different if we had been sorted into these houses."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous. The only advantage of you in Gryffindor is that you look better in the red Quidditch cloak than in the yellow, if that is of any account."

"Well, blue could've suited you, you know," John joked, trying not to interpret too much into Sherlock's words. It was a simple statement, right? People told other people that some colour looked better on them than another colour all the time.

_Yes, couple-y people,_ a not-so-helpful voice in John's mind added.

Sherlock didn't respond to this but suddenly bolted upright, throwing the handful of grass away. "This is stupid, John – is this how normal people spend their time? Thinking about the what if's of their lives?"

"Some people do," John replied and then looked away, muttering: "I do."

But of course, Sherlock had heard that and suddenly, John found his face in a grip and being turned while his upper body was pressed down by quite some weight. Sherlock had rapidly turned over and grabbed John's face, supporting himself with his elbows on John's pad-covered chest.

"Nothing, nothing you could've done would've changed anything the day you got attacked." Sherlock hissed, almost angrily, and his eyes drilled themselves into John's once more. "You did the bravest and most ridiculous thing anyone could've done, and you gave more than anyone expected, do you understand me? Nod if you do."

John's heart was pounding in his chest, torn between anger, sadness and desperation and something else that he could only describe as Sherlock's presence so close to him, but the detective didn't go away, so John mumbled: "Sherlock?"

"Oh, what now?"

"I- uhm, I can't nod if you don't let go of my face, you know?"

For a small eternity, Sherlock seemed to debate whether John was right or not, and if he should give in and then, all of the sudden, a grin spread on his face and he laughed out loudly, letting go of John's face and getting up abruptly. And for once, he held out his hand to help John up instead of just running off.

John couldn't fight the urge that overcame him and despite still having the nagging feeling that always seemed to accompany him – the 'Could he have done more?' – Sherlock's enthusiasm and glee was infecting and he stumbled to his feet, following when he was yanked away by Sherlock. His limp was forgotten and when they finally slowed down at the entrance of the castle, John poked Sherlock in the back to get his attention and said before the taller boy could protest: "Just for the record - I'm pretty glad that you were born 16 years ago."

X

"This is worse than detox," Sherlock announced dramatically and pushed the book for Astronomy off the table.

"Stop behaving like a five year old," John dismissed him and picked up the book, smoothing out a crinkled page. "And besides – if you hadn't deleted all the Astronomy stuff, you wouldn't have to learn everything again!"

"Would you two please shut up? I'm trying to get all this Herbology crap into my head and I'm already behind in this stupid learning schedule," Greg complained, shooting John and Sherlock an annoyed look. "I don't even understand the pace at which we're supposed to learn all of this! I mean, I can understand basic stuff, but they're doing it way too quickly," he stated and flipped through a pile of notes helplessly. "I need to do this on my own pace."

"Your pace is glacial at best," Sherlock responded irritated and earned a snort from Zack, before Greg hit his dorm-mate on the back of his head.

"Oi, don't pretend to be better than us."

Zack looked hurt now, while Sherlock seemed to feel like his opinion was needed. "Well, I'm better."

"At what?" Greg dared to ask.

"Everything," was the oh so modest reply, but John, who always did a good job of grounding Sherlock, muttered: "Except for eating, sleeping and deciding when to stop insulting your friends before they flush your head in the toilet."

Sherlock looked disbelieving at that threat but apparently couldn't decide if John was serious or not, so he wisely kept his mouth shut this time.

John's sternness towards studying and exams saved them in the end and everyone was extremely grateful when the time for their O.W.L.s rolled around and they felt well prepared, in comparison to many other students who had panic attacks shortly before the first exam started. One girl even fainted and had to be carried off to the Hospital Wing.

Their exams began with the written part of Charms on Monday morning, and while John did his best to remember everything important about Substantive Charm and the Levitation Charm, SHerloch apparently decided halfway through his exam that he was bored, handed his parchment in and left.

When he was asked about it later, he shrugged and claimed he was done filling in everything and the others didn't dig deeper – Greg and John were almost sure that even if Sherlock did horrendous in his tests, he would magically (which meant Mycroft) get through is O.W.L.s.

Almost everyone looked forward to the practical exams – maybe besides Alec, who already dreaded the Fire-Making Charm ("But you're a flaming gay, you should be able to do it by now," Zack had teased him, finding himself really funny while it had taken Mike and Greg to hold Alec back from cursing Zack with the Bogies or something worse) – and in their own opinion they did fairly well (Zack and Mike), pretty good (Greg) and awesome (John and Sherlock).

His strong protective instinct made it even easier for John to fight off the various jinxes and curses thrown at him, he sent poor Professor Jones straight through the hall when her curse bounced off his Hex-Deflection and when he was given the chance to produce a Patronus for bonus points, he didn't think twice, closed his eyes and remembered Christmas day and the mind palace while the roaring lion broke free from the tip of his wand.

Sherlock had apparently done really well, too, although he was being sent out of the hall early since he apparently had decided to attack back instead of just reflecting the spells. He didn't talk about the Patronus and John assumed Sherlock just didn't want to admit that he still couldn't do it, so he left the topic alone.

In the second week, they had to write an essay about the Polyjuice Potion, which John managed easily, as well as Sherlock, who not only wrote the best essay but also included ideas for improvement. The practical part was a Draught of Peace and John, slightly worried, watched Sherlock with hawk eyes, which the Slytherin acknowledged with a roll of his eyes.

History of Magic was the only subject where there was no practical part and since it was also the last exam to take place, the mood was pretty low already. John knew he had no chance to even write the necessary amount about Wand legislation because he simply knew nothing about it and, very unlike his usual self, decided to just give up. It wasn't like he needed History of Magic anyways, he told himself to calm his nerves. Apparently the Greg had decided the same and they were the first to leave the classroom, laughing loudly when they realized they were officially done. Now there was nothing to worry about until late that summer when their results would arrive.

The Fifth Year at Hogwarts was officially done.

X

John sat through the feast at the end of the year with mixed feelings – after a long discussion, he'd agreed to go to Holmes Manor with Sherlock over the summer rather than going back to the house of his parents, which Harry inhabited now together with Clara. He'd only learned about that a few weeks ago, from one of Harry's short, cold letters and when he realized that she wouldn't need him at home like he originally had feared, he had accepted Sherlock's – well, not _offer_, since the Slytherin had actually planned on John coming, despite not waiting for his answer, but only now realizing the finality of his decision – two months with Sherlock and Mycroft in one house.

The feast was near it's end now and everyone waited patiently for McGonagall's last words before they were all excused to their dorms for one last night at the castle. However, instead of just standing up to talk to the student body, the Headmistress this time walked around the teachers' table and stood at the speaker's desk with the owl carving, candles floating around her. The noise in the hall died down when she started to speak.

"Students! Before this evening ends, I have an important announcement which will excite you greatly, I suppose." She stopped briefly and was now sure that everyone's attention was on her, before continuing.

"The Ministry of Magic has decided to enable another Triwizard Tournament next year-"

The whisper that started immediately after these words was so loud that McGonagall had to stop her speech. John, as well as his dorm, had heard about this Tournament in class, but it was obvious that especially the kids from wizard families were hyped about this news. A quick glance to the Slytherin table where Sherlock sat, made John grin, because the genius already wore a look on his face that promised adventure. When he noticed John's look, he raised one eyebrow, as if to say 'This is going to be good'.

"- if you were so friendly as to quiet down? Thank you –" McGonagall looked around. "For those who don't know what the Triwizard Tournament is: it's a magical contest, traditionally held between the three greatest Wizarding schools of Europe: the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Durmstrang Institute and Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. Each school is represented by one champion of age 16 or higher, who has to compete in three tasks that require intelligence and high magical skills. However, due to the events of the 1994 Triwizard Tournament, Durmstrang Institute has declared that they do not wish to compete this year. They are replaced by the German Reichenbach Facility of Magic and both visiting schools will arrive at Hogwarts on Halloween's Eve, where we will welcome them as our guests – I expect all of you to behave accordingly. A Yule Ball will also be held at Christmas, so students above the age of 16 might want to prepare dress robes for the occasion."

At the mention of the ball the chatter, especially among the girls, got louder again and soon the whole hall was not to be tamed anymore. John, between listening to the excited chatter of his friends communicating with Sherlock over two tables and watching the teachers, who not all seemed happy about the announcement of the Triwizard Tournament, wondered, if this contest was something he liked or didn't like. Sure, it looked like an exciting adventure, and Sherlock was probably already planning to enter, but he had seen a life-time full of terror and fighting in just one summer, one day even. But somehow, he knew that his opinion on these things hardly mattered when life with Sherlock was nothing but unexpected, complicated, mad and – wonderful.

And so they started into their summer holidays, the topic of all conversations being the Triwizard Tournaments and even in their joined compartment, Zack, Mike, Alec, Greg, John and Sherlock together, all their chats were about the competition next year, decisions were being made on entering or not entering, Sherlock shared his knowledge about the mysterious Goblet of Fire that would choose the champions with them, and for the first time in over one and a half years, the world seemed to be good again.

* * *

_**Thank you so much for all your support, and thank you for being on a first-name-basis with me, I feel like I know all of you and get so damn excited about every review!** _  
_Much love,_  
_Hanna_


	15. Interlude: Summer Break 5

Richard and Cassiopeia seemingly accepted John at the Manor as if he'd lived there all his life and no one mentioned his parents, the fact that he hadn't talked to Sherlock for over a year or anything else, really, although he saw Cassiopeia watching him on some occasions with her Sherlock-eyes (which was nonsense, of course, because obviously Sherlock had Cassiopeia-eyes and not the other way round, but who said that John's mind had to make sense all the time? It wasn't like he was a bloody genius.), probably deducing – if she was able to do that – his deepest thoughts.

Mycroft still lived at the Manor, and he, too, went back to his usual habits – namely, kidnapping John on occasion – as if nothing had happened. However, he addressed the year of the discord on one of his abductions.

"When my brother started taking various substances to numb his mind, he did it partly because of you, you know that?" Mycroft had told him and John had clenched his fists. The older Holmes noticed, of course and added: "I don't say it's your fault – I just mean to convey to you how great your influence on Sherlock's life is. If you two hadn't sorted it out, I am sure Sherlock would be dead by now."

"That's not true." John's protest was weak, though.

Mycroft simply raised one eyebrow.

"He... he saved me just as much as I saved him," John finally managed, hating to admit such a thing to Mycroft at the same time.

"So I think it is safe to say that such an awful quarrel should not happen again." Mycroft stated this lightly, but John had the feeling he was threatened and... _pleaded_ at the same time – only a Holmes could convey so many meanings at the same time. Mycroft was right, though, so John nodded sharply.

"If that's sorted out, you might be interested in knowing that James Moriarty is still operating from Albania, but my people are sure that he has some accomplices or rather... minions, if you want to use that word, at Hogwarts – Sherlock will try to find out who they are without doubt, and you-"

"-need to be there. I know, we had this talk already," John reminded him.

"And now my brother is infected with lycanthropy," Mycroft deadpanned.

"He's fine," John bit out from clenched teeth. The older boy continued to stare at him and so John added: "Why do you even know all about Moriarty? Who are your people – seriously, what are you even doing in your job?"

Mycroft smiled sweetly. "I simply hold a minor position in the Ministry." He ignored John's disbelieve and picked up from where they'd left off. "All I am saying is that should Sherlock find out more, I want both of you to think rationally – you, of all people, have the right to be angry, but I want you to think twice when Sherlock gets a clue to who is working with Moriarty from Hogwarts. Don't do anything you might regret."

John wasn't sure if he could promise that, and after all he didn't owe Mycroft an answer. The older Holmes recognized John' silence with an expression that could've been mistaken for worry and the conversation ended then.

Aside from abductions, life at the Manor was the same as back during the summer holidays after their third year and most of July and August were spent pleasantly with roaming the manor, the fields and woods – twice as dog and werewolf, enjoying the cool summer nights and the life that finally seemed good again, now that they were parts of each other's lives again.

And so the days were more or less the same until the middle of August, early in the morning.

X

"Get dressed, John, we're leaving in five minutes," Sherlock called, banging the door to John's room open and causing the blond to bolt upright in his bed, fumbling for his wand before realizing that the threat was no threat but Sherlock. Well, okay, so maybe a tiny threat.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock," John moaned and rubbed his eyes. A glance to his watch told him it was just after six in the morning and there was absolutely no reason for Sherlock to be so hyper that early.

"I hate to repeat myself, but since you're slower in the morning than during the day, I will do so: Get dressed, we're leaving in five minutes!" Sherlock told him, changing between excitement and annoyance and completely ignoring the daggers which John tried to shoot at him with his glare.

John sighed in defeat, but he knew better than to question Sherlock when he was in one of his moods and so he stumbled out of his bed and started pulling on his trousers and a t-shirt, painfully aware that Sherlock was not moving an inch while he was getting dressed. "Do I get to know where we are leaving for?" he asked, pausing momentarily to remember where his socks had gone.

"It's a surprise," Sherlock announced, and John banged his head as he sat up from where he was kneeling half-way under the bed, as he hear what Sherlock had said.

"A surprise? You don't do surprises."

"That's the surprise then," Sherlock deadpanned.

"I'm not- OWW! Bloody- Sherlock, get Auriga out from under my bed ASAP!" John hissed and sucked on the scratches at the back of his hand. Auriga had obviously dragged his socks (and, from the look of it also two t-shirts and a jumper) under the bed and when John had felt around down there, she'd scratched him. He probably was lucky that she liked him, otherwise she'd drilled her fangs into his hand.

Sherlock sighed and then, with a quick whistle, called Auriga to his side, where she sat down looking like an old Egyptian statue, giving John an innocent look.

"You can take the Firebolt, brush your teeth and meet me in the garden," Sherlock then told him and, without waiting for John to reply, whirled around and was out of the door. John was not sure what exactly was going on with Sherlock but if he got the chance for some flying, he wouldn't complain.

X

Hours later - the sun was already setting again - they were finally descending the soft hills towards the Manor again. They both were covered with mud, John carried his Firebolt over one shoulder and they were breathless from laughing. At first they'd been roaming the woods and when Sherlock had disturbed a Pixy hive, they were lucky that John had his Firebolt with him - they'd barely escaped, had found a small river area with swampland surrounding and it had been a paradise for Sherlock who could collect samples and analyse things to heart's content while John, in a more childish manner, simply had had fun with stomping through the mud with bare feet.

The further away they'd gotten from the manor the freer Sherlock had been and in early afternoon he'd given in to John's nagging, had turned up his trouser legs and soon they were running about. Sherlock had discovered something shiny a few meters away and had roughly pushed John aside in an attempt to get there first, but John, with his bottom in the mud, had slung his hands around Sherlock's left ankle and the genius sprawled on the ground. Sherlock pushed himself up annoyed and shoved John back down, only to be dragged along again and suddenly they'd been rolling around in a mad struggle. John had rarely seen Sherlock that free and comfortable within something that wasn't thinking and deducing and when they came to a sudden halt, John found himself on his back, with Sherlock half on top of him, keeping himself up with one hand next to John's head in the grass and the other hand pressed into John's shoulder, inches above the scar of the basilisk fang.

The sun illuminated Sherlock's head from behind, casting a halo around his curls and as they were panting, John found himself craving something he'd never felt before. Suddenly, all he wanted was to close the distance between himself and Sherlock, press his lips against the other boy, silencing the pants from exertion and giggling into the kiss. For a split-second, as their eyes found each other, Sherlock looked like he wanted to do the same, like he knew what John thought and as if he would want it too, but then the moment was over, Sherlock rolled down and they both got up, exchanging glances that were maybe just a little embarrassed, but finally Sherlock gave him one of his rare smiles before dashing away, hints of red spots on his prominent cheekbones. John smiled fondly and followed.

And as they were now bursting into the manor through the terrace doors, dirty, laughing and exhausted from the day, they didn't realize that the room behind the doors wasn't empty until all heads turned towards them.

Immediately, Sherlock froze on the spot, stiffened and the laughter died down, while John eyed the maybe 10 people in the room interestedly.

Of course he knew Cassiopeia und Richard (whom he still couldn't think of as Richard but rather Mr. Holmes) and of course Mycroft, but the others were strangers. However, John quickly figured out that they had to be relatives since some of them resembled Mycroft and Mr. Holmes quite closely. Some had the high cheekbones that Sherlock sported, and while John had always figured Sherlock took completely after his mother, he obviously shared some traits of his father's side of the family, too.

"Sherlock?" one of the women, an older one with pitch-black eyes and deep lines from frowning all over her face asked, sounding somewhat disbelieving.

"Aunt Eleonora," Sherlock replied, voice absolutely flat.

John watched fascinated how Mycroft's usual calm face did a weird dance while he communicated with his younger brother over the heads of everyone. It seemed like Mycroft was signalling Sherlock to 'get the fuck out', simply put, and while John wasn't sure what was going on, his alarm went off in the back of his head.

"Why are you looking like... this?" the woman called Eleonora asked with disgust and gestured up and down Sherlock's tense body and then her eyes turned to look at John. "And who is that?"

"John Watson, Ma'am," John told her politely, ignoring Mycroft's warning face.

"You're the mudblood that got attacked last summer?" one of the men piped up, eyeing John coldly. Then he turned to Mr. Holmes. "What is he doing here, Richard?"

"He was just leaving. Mycroft?" Richard quickly stated and Mycroft shifted into action. He moved around the group of people and pushed the door open while Sherlock already nudged John whose ears were buzzing from the man's words, outside. As if underwater, the Gryffindor heard Eleonora ask: "Richard, I thought you said Sherlock was away in Hungary for two weeks. What is he doing here, dirty and with the mudblood-"

Sherlock's eyes were on John, he was ready to spring into action in case the Gryffindor decided to do 'defend his honour' or something equally stupid, but John, as often when the attack was mentioned, went disturbingly quiet.

"You have 10 minutes, pack your bags and meet me downstairs again. Make sure John is ready, too," Mycroft instructed and Sherlock turned to face his friend.

"John, it is essentially that you listen to me closely - you need to pack your things and be quick about it. The questions you have are obvious, but right now there is no time for them. Do you understand? Nod."  
John narrowed his eyes, slowly coming from his trance and nodded. He had no idea what was going on but when Mycroft pushed the door to his room open and shoved him in, something so disturbingly uncharacteristic for the older Holmes, John knew it was serious and he quickly moved around while Sherlock went next door.

8 minutes and 47 seconds later, John stood next to Sherlock, suitcase in his hands and then Mycroft grabbed his shoulder and he felt as if he was hooked by the navel and pulled forwards abruptly - he didn't even have the time to scream and after the sudden blur of colour he found himself staring at the counter of the Leaky Cauldron, willing down the sudden sickness that had washed over him.

He got no explanation what the hell was going on until he was ushered into a small room with a double bed and a large wardrobe - but then he sat down his suitcase soundly and narrowed his eyes, fixating the Holmes brothers who stared back easily, faces clear of any emotion.

"Ok now someone tell me what the hell is going on here? We stumble into some sort of family gathering, your relatives - WHOM I HAVE NEVER MET - proceed to insult me, we have to pack our bags and move out?!"

"I'll leave Sherlock to explain this to you, I'm afraid I have to leave for now," Mycroft replied easily and, ignoring the annoyed look his brother sent him, disappeared through the door.

"As you might have guessed already, I have very little in common with my family as it is, and my... friendship-" Sherlock sounded as if his tongue was not used to wind itself around this word and John was equally astonished to hear it, but had other things at hand to concentrate on at the moment, "my friendship to you would have been frowned upon. Not that there is much these people _don't_ frown upon, but there are rules concerning what a Holmes should do and not do."

"Let me guess - befriending a _Mudblood_ is not one of them," John asked, realizing that there was a bit too much vile in his voice - it wasn't as if that was Sherlock's fault, but the sheer racism he was only now learning about disgusted John deeply.

"I have always believed this behaviour as ignorant," Sherlock told him, with the voice he reserved for when talking to people he deemed idiots - his distaste regarding his family was obvious, but that didn't make John feel better.

"You couldn't have told me about them?!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes dismissively. "Your temper would have made a clear judgment impossible - as it is doing now. You shouldn't have met them at all-"

The light bulb that appeared over John's head could've lit all of London for a week. "That's why we were going out today? You knew they were coming and you were - you were hiding me?!"

"You are being overly drama-"

"Hell, Sherlock, you could've just told me that they were coming and we could've stayed out of the way or something!"

Sherlock huffed. "Well, since you're making a scene now – which I hoped to avoid – yes, you are right, we could've stayed and hidden, because you would've made scene then, too, and we'd have the same outcome."

"I'm not making a scene-" John rubbed his forehead and then took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. Finally, he asked, making sure that he sounded perfectly calm: "Why did we have to leave? For the Leaky Cauldron, I mean?"

"Mycroft and my father will do some explaining, but it has always been obvious that I was the 'odd one out' you could say." For the first time, Sherlock's voice sounded somehow bitter. "'One thing is not like the others'." He laughed coldly. "I was supposed to act normal-" now John was sure he could hear the vile in Sherlock's words and he felt himself uncomfortably reminded of their fight in their fourth year, when John had told him to think _normal_, "but I dreaded it. They are not that stupid, they'll figure us out and they will give my mother and father the choice – me or the family."

John couldn't believe what he was hearing, he felt his face heat up again and he clenched his fists, ready to get angry, but Sherlock simply kept on talking, knowing what was going on in John.

"My stupid brother made sure to transfer most of the money from my trust fund to himself years ago – he always feared I wouldn't make it to my 17th birthday when I would've been granted access. He'll let us stay here until we can go back to Hogwarts and next year I'll be a legal adult and get access to my vault at Gringotts. I have no need for family and I always knew I would be expelled and denounced sooner or later. There is no need for your anger."

"But- your mother- they can't just pretend you're not their son anymore!"

"Oh they can and will. I'm sure my name is burnt from the family as we are speaking." Sherlock looked indifferent and then stepped to the window. When he spoke again, his voice was full of excitement. "John, do you realized we're in the middle of London?! We need to go out right now-"

But John was not in the mood for excited-Sherlock right now. He couldn't wrap his mind around what Sherlock had told him and the indifference with which Sherlock seemed to accept the fact that he'd just lost his entire family within half an hour. Of course, they weren't exactly friendly or affectionate, but they were still family, right? So John did the only thing that made sense right now – he shoved a towel into Sherlock's hand and said: "We're not going anywhere. We'll have a shower, food, and then you're going to tell me more about your family!"

Sherlock looked like he was going to protest, but since he lost little chunks of dried mud whenever he moved, he only made a face and disappeared into the bathroom. John sighed, sat down on the (only, really comfortable, DOUBLE) bed and asked himself for the billionth time when his life had become the mad mess it was at the moment.

X

When Sherlock had finally excited the bathroom almost an hour later, clad in only the towel that sat low on his waist, hair still damp and single droplets of water running down his smooth chest, John had swallowed drily and had pried his eyes away before grabbing his own towel and disappearing in the adjoining bathroom. While he was undressing, he wondered when the whole attraction towards Sherlock had started – John had always thought he wasn't gay, he'd genuinely liked Sarah and had found her attractive, as well as many other girls and never a single boy, but lately, he found himself dreaming of Sherlock, waking up with hot cheeks from dreams that were vivid in his mind and when he was frustrated with Sherlock or genuinely happy – it didn't matter, really – he longed to clash their lips together. But Sherlock had never shown any tendencies towards either gender, had never even indicated he had similar urges to anyone and he usually scoffed at couples, so John was sure that this was pretty one-sided… whatever _this_ was.

He sighed and turned on the water, waiting for it to heat up before stepping in the stream, moaning in comfort as the hot water ran down his body. He stayed under the water for much longer than necessary, almost in a trance, when he heard the door of their room bang. Following a sudden impulse, he sneaked out of the shower stall and grabbed his towel, but left the water running. When he pressed his ear against the wooden door, he could clearly hear Sherlock and his brother talking.

"I'm old enough, Mycroft!"

"You're not even 17."

"John will be soon. And when the next summer comes around, I will be too. I'm not going back."

"Mother will be-"

"Mother and I have talked about this a long time ago. I made my decision."

"... John."

John startled when he heard his name from Mycroft's lips and wondered if he was caught when Sherlock replied and John realised his name had been the answer to something said before – the answer to Sherlock's decision.

"You are extremely tedious today - not everything is about John."

"We both know that's not quite true. You might ignore it, brother, but I do have the same abilities as you have."

"Not a word! This is not... relevant and it's completely useless. There is a 74% chance that he will be together with Sarah Sawyer by Christmas again."

Now John was genuinely confused, clearly having missed something that had indicated some sort of turn in the conversation.

"Only if you chose not to interfere." Mycroft sounded interested now.

Sherlock scoffed. "Sod off, Mycroft."

"Oh, I will. I hope you have good night's rest. Hopefully John doesn't move as much as you do - I imagine that would be quite interesting in a double bed. See you soon, brother-dear," Mycroft's smug reply came and then heavier footsteps moved away. John quickly moved and turned off the water, making extra noise as to indicate he had 'just' finished his shower and padded out of the bathroom in boxers and a t-shirt. He realized that they both had to sleep in the only bed in the room (Mycroft's words were still edged into his memory) and that he would feel more comfortable in a pyjama, but it was August and simply to warm for that. Sherlock was dressed in a blue gown that hung open over his chest and he was wearing pyjama bottoms, so John figured they wouldn't go out tonight and that Sherlock had actually come to live with the fact that he demanded answers.

And indeed, the evening until late that night was spent with stories about Sherlock's family. Sherlock's Muggle-hating, Mudblood-despising, aristocratic, posh, incredibly wealthy and 'oafish' family. John couldn't help but feel bad for turning up with Sherlock in the sitting room earlier; he felt like it was his fault that Sherlock had been made to leave, but Sherlock was having none of it, declaring that it really didn't matter and that he felt better now that he didn't have to pretend anymore. It was almost as if he was trying to comfort John – which the genius would never admit, obviously – but the Gryffindor smiled slightly at the clumsy attempt of comforting with words and with only the slightest awkwardness, they climbed under the blankets later, lying close to either edge of the bed and falling asleep. Sherlock hadn't mentioned Mycroft's visit earlier and John didn't ask.

X

In the middle of the night, John felt something struggle against his chest and he bolted upright, blinking into the darkness where he was met by a pair of bright silver eyes, glowing in the light of the moon.

"You were hugging me," Sherlock hissed, almost reproachful, and John's tiredness was gone while his face heated up.

"I'm sorry, I- uhm... I was asleep?"

"Your lowered heart rate and even breathing indicated that," Sherlock replied, obviously not accepting that as an excuse.

"Uhm, I can sleep on the floor or something. I really didn't mean to bother you-" John suggested, glad that it was dark so his red cheeks weren't showing.

"I wasn't bothered."

John did a double take. "What?"

Sherlock's eyes disappeared momentarily and John realized his friend was rolling his eyes. "I'm sorry, I heard you- why did you wake me if it didn't bother you?"

"Do you hug people often while you're asleep?" There was slight interest in Sherlock's voice.

"How am I supposed to know?"

"You've had sex with Sarah Sawyer and at least two other girls."

As much as this sounded like an explanation, coming from Sherlock, John didn't understand what he was leading to and frankly, it was a bit disturbing to hear about his private, well... sex life from Sherlock. He didn't ask why the genius knew, though, because it was no secret that Sherlock could tell who'd shagged (and with whom) if he wanted to.

"Did you not stay with them for the night?" Sherlock asked precisely when he realized John didn't understand what he meant.

"Oh, no, there was never really the chance... I mean, we just met and everyone had to go back to their dorm rooms and stuff..." John wasn't sure when this conversation in the middle of the night had turned that awkward.

"I see. Well, I think you were hugging me because you have an irrational fear of loss."

"It's not that irrational," John mumbled, aware that Sherlock could hear him, and then added, more loudly, "Well, if you're done deducing my sleep habits, we can go back to sleep? As I said, I'm sorry for... hugging you." _Even if you didn't mind, whatever that means. _

X

As soon as John had told Greg and the rest of his dorm that he and Sherlock were staying at the Leaky Cauldron for the rest of the holidays, the others made plans and soon they arrived, too, having convinced their parents to let them go by themselves or, in Greg's case, had forced their parents into staying in London for a holiday trip while the 'kids' met up.

They explored Diagon Alley and, in John's and Sherlock's case, Knockturn Alley by night, where they got offered a severed human head (which John didn't allow Sherlock to buy), several body parts, an egg that was supposed to hold a unicorn at which both Sherlock and John laughed loudly and an animal in a transport box neither of them saw, but judging by the bursts of flames coming from under the rag thrown over the box, it was probably a dragon.

The boys also discussed the Triwizard Tournament a lot and finally Greg, Sherlock and John decided to put their names into the Goblet of Fire. John and Greg were infatuated by the possibility of becoming the hero of the school and they both dreamed of being victors of the Tournament, fame and glory awaiting them, while Sherlock seemed to like the idea of being challenged, which, according to him 'almost never happened at school'. Zack, Mike and Alec agreed on just cheering since Zack claimed he would probably die if some sort of plant was involved and Alec mentioned with a shrug that he still couldn't get something easy like the Fire-Making Charm done without burning down half of the dorm, so participating in dangerous tasks was an even worse idea.

Whenever they talked about the Tournament, it seemed to be working in Sherlock's mind, but John decided that Sherlock would tell him if something was up and didn't question the genius for the moment.

While the days were filled with walking around London with everyone else, their nights belonged to John and Sherlock alone and more than once, John found himself chasing after Sherlock when the Slytherin was following someone he'd seen stealing and one time, they caught a man who'd shot his wife in the middle of the street and then proceeded to run from the police, quickly disappearing between small alleys with only Sherlock (and therefore also John) behind him.

When they cornered him in a blind alley, he realized he was being chased by two kids and tried to get past Sherlock with his fists – thankfully he'd lost his gun on the run or otherwise the situation could have gone wrong – but John was there in a moment and, for the loss of any real weapon, creamed him with lid of a dust bin.

That night, Sherlock once again woke from his light sleep when he felt John shift next to him and pull him closer, but instead of waking the older boy, he stayed perfectly still. He didn't go back to sleep, not for the rest of the night, but closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep when he felt John stir in the morning. A glance between half-closed eyelids showed him that John was embarrassed, but oddly enough, he found himself missing the other boy's warmth as soon as it was gone.

Of course John had only been projecting his fears on Sherlock, had held him while his brain had tried to live with the fear of loss and the strong protection instinct of the Gryffindor that had once again kicked in as Sherlock had been threatened by the murderer.

Sherlock didn't know why this was so embarrassing for John. Or why he, Sherlock, wasn't bothered by it like he should have been.

X

Their O.W.L. results had been predictable and John got 4 galleons from Greg because he had betted that Sherlock would be able to deduce their correct grades for all major subjects, which he had.

John himself was very content with his O.W.L.s, having received two Outstandings in Defense Against the Dark Arts and, oddly enough, Herbology, and the necessary Exceeding Expectations in Transfiguration, Charms and Potions. Greg laughed madly at John's Poor in Astronomy and simply everyone was cracking up when Greg, who'd snatched away Sherlock's letter, told them the so-called genius had received a T for 'Troll' in said subject.

That caused Sherlock to sulk for quite some time, until John pointed out the 7 Outstandings in Defense Against the Dark Arts, Charms, Potions, Herbology, Ancient Runes, Arithmancy and Transfiguration. The Slytherin might not be interested in school work, but his natural talent beat them all.

Soon after the O.W.L. results had come, it was time to go back to Hogwarts and as Sherlock and John went to bed together for the last time, on the evening before the 1st of September, it was actually Sherlock who addressed something that had also busying John lately.

"Living with you is not so bad," the genius stated out of the blue, from where he was sitting Indian style in the middle of the double bed. John looked up from his trunk in which he tried to fit all the new school stuff in addition to his old things.

"Thanks I guess? You're not so bad yourself, you know?" He smiled.

"I see..." Sherlock went silent for a while and John, who was used to that, didn't prod, knowing whatever it was that Sherlock was thinking about, he'd be let in sooner or later. Hopefully.

After about half an hour of silence – John was now sitting on his trunk, trying to close it – Sherlock spoke up again, continuing the conversation as if there had been no time of silence between now and his last statement. "In that case, would you consider moving in with me after school? I've set my sights on a nice place here in London, together we should be able to afford it."

John was taken by surprise for a moment, but then he realized that there was in fact nothing he'd rather do – he hadn't spent much time thinking about 'after school' since that was still two years away, but he realized that he didn't have much options – he could either move back into his parents' house with Harry and Clara (absolutely not!) or try and get his own place. Living in London was expensive, though, and even if he lived somewhere in Britain and took the Floo Network everywhere, he'd be away from everyone he knew. If Sherlock really wanted to live in London, already knew where he would find a flat and was willing to actually live with John – who was John to decline that?

And there still was this thing between them John couldn't name. Aside from being best friends (although Sherlock never really used any label), John couldn't imagine a life without Sherlock – sure, the violin concerts in the middle of the night that were happening frequently when they weren't at school (or, well, at least he only _witnessed_ them at the Manor and now in their room at the Leaky Cauldron) were annoying at times, but if Sherlock actually put effort in them, he produced wonderful melodies; also, the brilliance bordering on madness was what defined John's everyday life and... andthe living together part really was nice. It was nice seeing Sherlock first thing in the morning and as the last image before he went to sleep. _Together,_ his mind added.

When John looked up, he realized he'd probably taken too long with his answer, because Sherlock's curious look had turned somewhat apprehensive and he looked like he was going to dismissing his offer any second, so John smiled his broadest smile and replied: "That sounds great!"

For a split-second, Sherlock seemed positively delighted before he shrugged as if he'd known John's answer all along and then proceeded to dive into telling John everything about the flat – in Baker Street – he had in mind. As they finally went to sleep that night, the last thing Sherlock mused about was: "You know, we could get more space in the flat if we just used one bedroom... That would be-" his words were interrupted by a yawn, "-convenient..."

While the genius quickly drifted off into sleep, John wondered a bit about his words and then shrugged into the darkness, smiling a little. His eyes fell on Sherlock's evenly breathing figure and, following an impulse, he carefully reached out and draped on arm over his friend's body. His breath got caught when Sherlock stirred and he was already ready to pull his arm back when Sherlock, in his sleep, wriggled back and closer to John before stilling again.

With a racing heart, John went to sleep, realizing that they'd crossed some sort of line in their relationship that neither of them had know about – and the things that would result from that were yet to come.


	16. Sixth Year - Triwizard Tournament Part I

_For Rebecca_,  
_whom I love like Mycroft loves cake_

* * *

The first two months back at Hogwarts were spent in the usual way, which meant piles of homework, a heavy workload and heaps of fun. Because of the Triwizard Tournament, all Quidditch matches had been cancelled for the year and despite missing the sport, John was grateful for the extra time he had since there was no training three times a week. They had started on non-verbal spells in Defense Against the Dark Arts and practicing them had turned out to be really hard because John and his friends made the weirdest faces while concentrating all their willpower to use the simplest spells while not speaking – basically, they looked as they all had gas pains or something with their lips tightly shut and their faces bright read from the restraining of calling out the spells, so they couldn't practices them together because they cracked each other up all the time.

Another thing that was nice – at least John thought so – was that Sarah spent more time with them again and although Sherlock somewhat viciously stated that Sarah only came back to John now that he was feeling better again, he refrained from saying too much, knowing that John got worked up when he insulted Sarah too badly. And besides, it wasn't like they were together again – Sarah just hung out with them again, just like Molly.

On the evening of the 31st of October, the Great Hall was a sea of black, the only colour splotches being the crests of the Houses on everyone's jumpers. The boys had their shirts tucked in neatly, the girls were wearing the plain skirts and for once, the Hall was not decorated in the usual Halloween fashion, but decked out in the colours of the houses and two giant posters, welcoming the foreign students.

After giving them last instructions on behaviour, the students were led out of the Hall by their respective Heads of House (although Sherlock quickly slipped away from Professor Slughorn's watch and joined the Gryffindors) and lined up on the patio in front of the Entrance Hall. The more educated students already knew that Beauxbatons had arrived at Hogwarts in a carriage pulled by flying horses for the last Triwizard Tournament and now that it was actually about to happen, the word spread like wildfire and soon enough, the faces of hundreds of students were turned upwards, to the dark, cloudy sky, searching for a sign of the French.

Soon enough, Sherlock spotted a dark shadow coming closer rapidly and with a gasp, more and more students pointed up to where the carriage came closer. A dozen horses, giant, and with clean white wings that shimmered softly in the moonlight, pulled the over-sized carriage and with one last loop over the heads of the students, where it produced blue sparks ("Show offs," Sherlock mumbled but grinned when John whispered back: "You're the one to speak") and then leapt downwards.

The ground shook when the wheels connected with it and finally the carriage came to a halt, the winged horses stomping the ground, throwing their heads back and neighing loudly. John involuntarily made a step back and shoved Sherlock, when the Slytherin snickered at him.

For a short while, nothing happened, but just when Professor McGonagall was about to knock at the door of the carriage, it flew open, producing more blue sparks, as well as tiny blue butterflies and birds and out stepped the tallest woman John – and everyone else, for that matter – had ever seen.

"She's half-giant," Sherlock noted interestedly, peeking up from his place a bit behind John.

"And what are you then? Quarter giant?" Greg asked smugly and John snorted, attracting a death glare from McGonagall who probably thought he laughed at the other Headmistress.

"Don't be ridiculous. I take the precaution of a good coat and a short friend," Sherlock informed him drily, and patting John on the shoulder when the older boy wanted to protest. Not because Sherlock calling him short was a lie but, well… he didn't _want_ to be called short. However, all he did was pout and then quickly wipe it off his face when the students from Beauxbatons followed their Headmistress out of the carriage.

They were, simply put, the most beautiful girls the Hogwarts students had ever seen and even the Hogwarts girls were in awe of the French's beauty. When the – admittedly little – number of French boys followed the French girls, the Hogwarts girls 'ooh'ed and 'aah'ed loudly and Sherlock, who seemed to be the only one unaffected by the appearance of the foreigners murmured deductions into John's ear, not caring that the Gryffindor didn't listen in favour of staring at the French.

It was obvious that in France, people didn't care so much about breeding across species, because in addition to the half-giantess as a Headmaster, there were several students with Veela blood (easy to spot – bright hair, fair bone structure, natural charm that held just a twinge of magic) and, if Sherlock was correct (which was highly likely) one girl with a quarter of Merpeople blood, judging by her flowing golden locks, the pale blue eyes and just a hint of webbing between her fingers. Maybe he could get her to give her a blood sample for some experiments if he-

Sherlock snapped out of his scientific bliss when he saw John practically drooling over the mermaid-girl (along with Greg and Zack) and for some reason, this infuriated him, which itself was something he was not used to, but even if he took into account the bothersome relations to Sarah Sawyer and various other girls from time to time, something was different now.

A part of Sherlock's brain – the John Watson part, obviously, - piped up and made him think of the events of the Summer Break and if he had to guess (and Sherlock never guessed, because he always knew) he'd say that this new feeling of… possessiveness had to do with the bond they shared, the bond that had changed to something more intimate than friendship.

Then again, who was Sherlock to decide on the intimacy of bonds? It wasn't like he knew the first thing about friendship and intimacy, no matter how much he claimed otherwise. Understanding bonds and relationships between other people was one thing, but applying this knowledge to himself (and John) was beyond his ability, how he had to admit to himself grudgingly. Maybe their bond was the same as before? Maybe friends stared at each other as if they wanted to kiss?

Did John stare like that at Lestrade sometimes? Like he wanted to kiss Lestrade? Another hot wave of this possessiveness surged up and he nudged John hard, partly to vent his annoyance with himself and partly to make John stop drooling over the fish-girl.

When had he started to think that way? _Fish-girl?_ That was clearly evaluative, negatively so – he was being depreciating at the girl because he was angry at John. Also, he found that he didn't want John to look like that at Lestrade. Or anyone, for that matter.

Oh, maybe it was the best friends thing, though. Maybe only best friends looked at each other like that. Sherlock wouldn't know now, would he? He'd never had a best friend before – and since he was John's John couldn't have another best friend, either.

But oh, the dilated pupils and the ragged breath were signs of attractions, the easiest signs to see, so did that mean that he, Sherlock, was attracted to-

"Earth to Sherlock? Still with us?"

John's warm, amused voice interrupted his track of thoughts, but instead of barking at him for interrupting, Sherlock relished the fact that he now had the Gryffindor's full attention and gave his shoulders a squeeze to reassure him everything was orderly. After all, he knew John was always calmed down by physical gestures.

The French, shivering in their thin silk uniforms, had by now lined up next to the Hogwarts students to await the Germans who were yet to arrive and while the arrival of Beauxbatons had left a good impression with the girls, who had gushed over the flying carriage and the 'pretty' winged horses, Reichenbach made especially the boys gape. The roar of a motor was audible from far and long before they could actually see something, but suddenly a long, silver Benz limousine shot up the driveway from the gates, the same trail that the carriages used to carry the students to Hogwarts station for the holidays, and while everyone whispered and pointed, the car stopped with squealing tires only inches away from the students, who had jumped back hurriedly in fear of being run over.

Most Muggle-born wizards and witches instantly started talking about the luxurious, long limo that shone softly in the lights from the castle, a silver drop on the dark grounds, with its two headlights casting columns of light into the semi-darkness. John, too, marveled at the elegant car until he realized amusedly that some of the students from wizard families had never seen a car that close before, let alone ever sat in one. Magic was nice, yes, but John definitely found it odd not to know cars – but apparently some people just didn't. They'd heard about cars, yes, as a way of Muggle travelling, but there were two or three students who eyed it with careful interest.

Suddenly, however, one of the rear doors banged open and, in a pile of tangled limbs and heads, students started to pour out – way more than could have fitted in the long car.

"It's bewitched, just like the Beauxbatons carriage, to be bigger on the inside," Sherlock whispered when he saw John's awestruck look. Students still climbed out, now more orderly, one after the other, and then the driver's door opened and a large man with a bald head and a giant moustache climbed out and made his way over to Madame Maxime and Professor McGonagall, greeting them in a booming voice.

In the meantime, all students had left the car and were now standing, a bit awkwardly, but definitely interested opposite the waiting Hogwarts students and Professor McGonagall called out: "Welcome to Hogwarts! If you will follow us inside, we will begin with the Feast. Feel free to sit wherever you like, as you are encouraged to socialize with each other. After the Feast, there will be a short ceremony to open the Triwizard Tournament!"

Since it was slightly past their usual supper time, the Hogwarts students immediately pushed and hustled to get inside, with the German students who looked slightly amused and the French, who shivered and just looked relieved to finally get inside, following.

"You'd think they had learnt from the last Tournament – silk is clearly no appropriate fabric to wear to northern Britain," Sherlock huffed and John nudged him slightly, but had to agree. The French definitely looked a bit misplaced in their light blue silk uniforms with the crossed wands embroidered. The Germans looked warmer, although they weren't wearing school uniforms, but street clothes. Warm street clothes.

Both groups of guests watched interestedly how the Hogwarts students divided themselves naturally when entering the Great Hall, every House trailing towards their own table and after hesitating for a moment, their guests followed, parting in small groups and sitting down with the Hogwarts students. A lot of the French seemed to feel at home with the blue banners of Ravenclaw and sat with them, while some others sat down with the Slytherins. Only two or three went to Hufflepuff and Gryffindor, but the Germans, who looked definitely more at ease, simply sat down wherever they liked.

Greg and John watched giggling how Sherlock, as usual at the end of the Slytherin table, suddenly was surrounded by three French and six German students and proceeded to shoot annoyed glances at the guests and, when noticing John and Greg snickering, at them, too.

"Excuse me, can we sit here?" a female voice interrupted them and when they looked up, they found a group of three girls and two boys from Reichenbach looking at them inquisitively.

"Sure, help yourself," Greg gestured while John moved to the side a bit to make room. The foreigners sat down and introduced themselves while their headmaster, as well as Madame Maxime, took their seats next to Professor McGonagall at the teacher's desk.

Soon enough, everyone was digging in as the food appeared and next to the usual stuff the House Elves did for Halloween, there were French and German dishes, too, like Coq au vine and Bratwurst, and everyone quickly lost their inhibitions in talking. The French talked very little to the Germans and the Hogwarts students, they didn't seem very comfortable with the English language, and while the Germans did sound a bit funny, they soon talked easily with everyone at the table.

"They're not big talkers, huh?" Zack noted at one point and pointed his fork down the table to the French who talked with each other in rapid French, but seemingly ignored everyone else.

"The French and the German have a bit of a, uhm, strained relationship," one of the Reichenbach students, a girl called Bianca answered. "I don't think they like us very much."

"Or maybe they're just busy freezing," a Gryffindor girl from down the table tried, giving the three French a nasty look. She'd tried talking to one of them, a kind of attractive boy with dark brown hair, a bit earlier and he had simply ignored her.

"They look good, though," Greg mentioned dreamily and stared at one of the French girls sitting at the Hufflepuff table. He'd broken up with Molly in the summer – it wasn't nasty or anything, Molly just admitted that she didn't really love Greg and they had gone back to being friends, nothing more – and from what it looked like, Greg was definitely interested in something new.

"Well, we look good and we're warm," one of the Germans, a small boy with glasses and blond hair that was so light it almost looked white, replied with a grin and caused everyone to laugh.

"What's it with your clothes, anyway?" John asked. "Don't you have school uniforms?"

"Nah, we can dress the way we want, as long as it's 'appropriate'," another girl called Rebecca, tall and with a head full of curls, told him and plucked at her purple cardigan. "I think it's nicer like this."

The conversation went on like this, John's dorm quickly befriending the guests from the other school and when it was time for dessert – everything from Crème brulee to apple strudel – they talked like they'd never been strangers.

When the dishes were cleared away, Professor McGonagall got up and the Hall went silent, as she told them about former Triwizard Tournaments, the honour – but also danger – that awaited a possible Champion and so on and so forth. Halfway through the speech, Sherlock appeared behind John and squeezed himself in between Greg and him, declaring in an annoyed whisper that he couldn't stand the mindless French blabber any minute longer.

John wondered for a moment if Sherlock could actually understand French but then he remembered the 'French' labeled door in Sherlock's mind palace and smiled before offering his condolences for the _torture_ Sherlock had been through and going back to listening.

However, Professor McGonagall had finished and was now waiting for Mr. Filch to set up a giant box in the middle of the Great Hall before stepping down the stairs. She raised her wand and lightly touched the upper part of the box that proceeded to disappear and reveal a large, stone cup with blue runes covering the sides.

"All of you have one week to put your name into the Goblet of Fire. It will then choose three Champions, one for each competing school. But remember: once your name is in the Goblet, you will have to compete if you get chosen. There is no backing out or re-thinking, so think your decision through." She paused for a moment and then continued. "Only students of age 16 or higher may put their name into the Goblet of Fire – those of younger age are not advised to try and put their names in as there will be severe consequences."

McGonagall let her eyes roam over the whispering student body one last time and then announced: "There will also be obligatory dance lessons in December that are to be attended by all Hogwarts students. Our guests are also free to attend if they want to, of course." With that being said, she dismissed them and the Hogwarts students made their way to their respective dorm rooms while the guests disappeared back to their car and carriage. Apparently the Benz was _way bigger_ on the inside and looked very much like a camper van – that's what Rebecca had told them and after Sherlock had been bothering her long enough, she'd agreed to show him around there some time.

For now, silence came over the castle, but there was a tension in the air that was almost tangible. The Sixth Year was the year of the Triwizard Tournament, and everything was about to start soon.

X

Sherlock was the first one to march up to the Goblet of Fire on Monday morning and without hesitating for the slightest moment, he dropped the note with his name inside. The flames went red for a moment, lighting up his pale face and then he turned on his heel and marched over to where John was waiting for him with a warm smile on his face.

"So, now you're a potential Champion. Do you reckon you'll get chosen?"

The Slytherin cocked his head for a moment and then told his friend: "There is no possible way of deciding that just yet – I have to wait until the number of contestants is final and then take different things into consideration, such as skill, moti-"

"Is that his way of saying he doesn't know?" Greg joked and earned a glare from Sherlock while John tried to stay serious at Sherlock's hurt expression. For someone claiming to be superior, all grown-up and not a victim to most emotions like an average person, he had a fairly wide expression range from fake-hurt over pouting to sulking.

Sherlock stayed mad at Greg for the rest of the week and didn't even congratulate him when he dropped his name in the Goblet, too.

However, he did talk to Rebecca the day the German dropped her name in the magical device, and John watched in a mixture of awe, worry and fascination how Sherlock did his best to charm the tall girl for almost half an hour, clearly intent on making her take him into the Benz so he could snoop around. John willed down the heat surging through him for the shortest of moments when Sherlock flashed the girl a bright smile and gestured wildly, and he calmed himself down with the knowledge that what Sherlock was doing was fake, because there were no wrinkles around his eyes and John knew how a real, heartfelt Sherlock-laughter sounded like.

He was still very glad when Rebecca, after having Sherlock ensnaring her for quite some time, smiled genuinely and told him to drop the act. It was priceless to see how Sherlock's face fell for a moment before he straightened up and put on a blank expression, clearly trying to hide the fact that he was surprised he'd been caught, but the German ignored the way the genius was shutting himself off already and offered to take him into the Benz the next day.

John smiled to himself when Sherlock's eyes lit up – this time with real joy – and he agreed quickly when Rebecca asked him to join them.

The week of the Goblet of Fire flew by and soon enough it was the last evening. Although John had been planning on putting his name in all summer, somehow he hadn't gotten around to do so yet and when he hurried to the Goblet, a piece of parchment with his name scribbled down hastily in his hands, he couldn't help but feel a bit strange. It was as if he'd been afraid to drop his name in, but now when he stood in front of the pot, he felt a strange reluctance. He looked around in the Great Hall, trying to get rid of the feeling of being watched, but he was alone and he shook his head, taking one deep breath and then let go of the parchment.

The flames turned red for a moment and then the note was gone, burnt to ashes for the moment.

X

The day of the announcement of the school champions was also John's birthday and this was not any birthday – since it was his 17th, he was an adult in the Wizarding world now, which meant he was allowed to do magic outside of Hogwarts and also that he could live alone now if he wanted to.

When he realized just that, early in the morning while everyone else was still asleep, he felt a familiar ache in his heart because if the attack hadn't happened, he could've gone home to his family for Christmas and the last summer holidays again, not having the need to be allowed to live on his own. However, the melancholy was quickly pushed aside when he remembered Sherlock's and his plans – they were going to spend the summer together, maybe do some travelling, go investigate things Sherlock found interesting and-

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY JOHN!" the calls of his four dorm-mates startled him from the bliss of imagining the next summer with Sherlock and he blinked into the bright morning light when they yanked the curtains around his bed open.

Finally able to see again, he realized that there were in fact five people standing around his bed – Sherlock was standing behind the others, not having participated in the birthday-yell (John grinned at that) but he, like the others held a present in his hands. Settling down on his bed, they all shoved their gifts into the birthday boys' hands and John, quite overwhelmed by all of it, muttered a thousand thanks before opening them.

He got a book called "Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches", which he eyed with a mixture between interest and embarrassment but placed it on his nightstand, laughing when Zack whispered in a conspiratorial fashion that the book was "pure gold" and that it wasn't all about "the wandwork", wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Alec blushed deep red and Mike and Greg toppled over laughing while Sherlock eyed them with a look of someone who'd just discovered a new species of apes and wasn't sure what they were doing at the moment.

John got another book, about Healing spells and potion ingredients from Mike, a gift card for the Quidditch supplies shop in Diagon Alley from Greg and another gift card, for Madam Malkin's, from Alec ("For the Yule Ball, you know?" Alec told him, somewhat shyly, clearly fearing the others would call him out on that present, but John was thankful because he had realized he didn't own a suit or dress robes for the upcoming Christmas event and could definitely use help in purchasing one). Lastly, Sherlock handed over a present from Mycroft.

John raised his eyebrows and Sherlock told him: "I only deliver his because now he owes me a favour."

Shrugging, the Gryffindor unwrapped the neatly wrapped package of the older Holmes and picked up a beautiful golden watch. "How dull," Sherlock commented, but John felt the need to defend his present and shrugged, eyeing the delicate thing interestedly. "You do realize he's patronizing you – usually, a wizard gets a watch for his seventeenth birthday by his parents."

"Sherlock!" Greg hissed and sends him a warning look, while everyone fell silent for a moment. John, however, for once didn't feel too bothered by Sherlock's words although they did remind him once again of what he had lost. And Sherlock, reading John as easy as an open book, knew he didn't go too far this time. But since everyone glared daggers at him, he added: "Well, at least it's an, uhm, useful instrument."

John gave him a small smile, indicating it was all fine, and said: "Tell Mycroft I said thanks." Sherlock rolled his eyes, but promised to do so.

Later in the day, he received a few other things from the rest of the Quidditch team, from Molly and from Sarah, who also kissed him on the cheek, smiling at him. Strange enough, though, he didn't really feel a thing – had that happened last year, or any other time, he knew he'd probably asked her out again instantly, but now something was different and after a short moment of silent, he smiled and thanked her, pretending not to notice how her face fell the slightest bit. What he didn't see was how Sherlock's eyes narrowed down the slightest bit.

And finally, it was evening, the students gathered in the Great Hall for supper and everyone was extremely excited because the Champions would be announced after everyone had eaten. A lot of those students who'd put their names into the Goblet couldn't manage to eat even the slightest bit and although neither John nor Sherlock or Greg had that problem, most of the French at the Gryffindor table poked at their food without much gusto. Rebecca, her sister and some of the Germans who sat with John and his friends regularly already guessed what the tasks could be, but when supper was finally over and Sherlock naturally slipped into his seat next to John, everyone shut up and even Sherlock was quiet.

Madame Maxime, Herr Maier and Professor McGonagall made their way over to the Goblet of Fire and then the half-giantess raised her wand and the whole student body held their breath when the flames of the Goblet turned red for a moment and suddenly a piece of parchment, still smouldering a bit, shot out of the magical device and fluttered into Madame Maxime's waiting hand.

She unfolded it and announced in her heavy French accent: "Ze champion for Beauxbatons is… Yves Gabin!"

Applause branded up, especially from the French and most of the Hogwarts students looked around questioningly, not even sure if that was supposed to be a boy's or a girl's name. Finally, they spotted a tall teen at the end of the Slytherin table, who got up and, smiling, made his way up to the three teachers. They all shook hands with him and then he positioned himself in front of Madame Maxime, who put one hand on his shoulder. In comparison to her, he looked incredibly short, but that didn't make him less attractive and John heard the dreamy sighs of like half the girls at the Gryffindor table.

When the applause stopped, Herr Maier stepped forward, the light of the hundreds of floating candles reflecting on his bald head and his eyes glistening good-naturedly when he, too, raised his wand and the Goblet produced another smoking piece of parchment. He caught and read it, then folded his hands over his enormous belly and called out: "The champion for Reichenbach is… Rebecca Schmidt!"

John, Greg and the rest of the dorm, as well as almost all Gryffindors started wolf-whistling and clapping loudly and even Sherlock (who, after getting over the humiliation of being uncovered in his charming act, had taken something like a liking to the tall German girl) applauded, while Rebecca, cheeks splotched red with excitement, got up and made her way up to the teachers, too. She also shook everyone's hand and positioned herself next to her Headmaster, who in comparison to her looked extremely small, creating a hilarious image next to the tall French Headmistress and the French champion.

Finally, the applause died down one last time and a heavy, tension-filled silence fell over the students, when Professor McGonagall lifter her wand and the Goblet spit out a piece of parchment for the last time before the fire died down completely and left it as an ordinary stone cup.

The professor read the parchment silently, then looked up, let her eyes roam over her students and announced: "The champion for Hogwarts is… _John Watson_!"

John didn't hear the applause, or his friends' calls or anything, really. He was numb, everything slowed down and he felt like he was underwater. People patted his back when he slowly, as if in trance, got up. He wasn't scared, but simply the fact that he was now a champion, a competitor in the most famous of all Tournaments, was enough to make it all look really bizarre. He felt like maybe this was a dream and he would wake up any second.

And then a warm hand closed around his wrist, for only the shortest of moments, and he looked down and found Sherlock staring up at him, pale eyes looking at him reassuringly and John was sure no one else could see it, but it was enough for him and he shook his head to get rid of the strange feeling; the noise, the colours, the feeling – everything washed back in, and then the light grip around his wrist was gone and he found himself moving towards the teachers, a smile slowly spreading on his face.

He shook McGonagall's hand, who said "Congratulations, Mr. Watson" and looked in the friendly face of Herr Maier and the appreciative eyes of Madame Maxime and then he turned to stand next to Professor McGonagall and overlooked his fellow students and friends and everything was wonderful.

X

Seeing as the three champions weren't given any hint on what the first task would be about and only were informed that they were supposed to bring nothing but their wand, there wasn't much John could do in preparation. The everyday life at Hogwarts carried on as usual and while he got tons of attention, especially from girls of all ages, he still had the usual trouble of a student in his sixth year – classes on N.E.W.T. levels.

He had received amazing O.W.L.s, sure, but that didn't mean he got success for free and additionally to his Prefect duties and extra training on all sorts of spells and charms that would probably come in useful, he was busy with homework and keeping Sherlock busy.

As John sat in the library one afternoon, about a week before the first task (which was set for the beginning of December), hidden away as far as possible to get some studying on Inferi done without having to sign pieces of parchment or arms or other body parts (he hadn't even done anything yet, hadn't even taken the first task and people already wanted that sort of stuff?!), he was interrupted by one of his dorm-mates.

"John, can I ask you something?"

John looked up from his essay and found Alec nervously looking at him.

"Sure, what is it?"

"Uhm, I was wondering- I mean, you know Sherlock best and… uhm… is he… interested in someone at the moment?"

Something in John's chest tightened at the simple, friendly question and although he didn't want to make it hard for Alec, who was clearly a bit uncomfortable even asking that, his answer was harsher than he meant it to be. "No, he's not." As soon as the words were out and Alec looked like a kicked puppy, John hurried to say: "I mean, he's never shown any interest in dating in general, you know?" He tried a reassuring smile and Alec lost a bit of his tension.

"Do you know if he's… you know… uhm, gay?"

"_You can make all sorts of deductions about other people's love lives, but don't you think getting one of your own would be… interesting, too?" John had asked, carefully watching Sherlock from his place on the bed._

"_I have no need for a love life. It's messy, distracting and I don't see the appeal in it at all," was the quick answer._

_"But a girlfriend might be a new exp-"_

"_Not really my area."_

_John blinked and then said: "Boyfriend then. Which is fine, by the way."_

"_I know it's fine. And no. I have other things to occupy my mind. The Work, the Experiments."_

"I think if he used a label, it would be gay, yes," John said carefully. "But he's really not interested in a relationship." He remembered that conversation back in the summer well. Soon after, he had realized that whatever feeling he might be harboring for Sherlock were most likely not going to be reciprocated.

Alec's face fell a bit and John tried to focus on his friend again. "Why do you ask, though? Are you, uh into him?" God, even saying that felt weird and wrong. Not because no one would be into Sherlock – he was incredibly smart, talented, amazing, beautiful – John had to stop himself right there – but because Sherlock never showed any interest in anyone and therefore other people showing interest in the sense of romance was simply strange.

"Well I thought I could ask him out, you know, maybe see if he wanted to go to the Yule Ball and- well it was stupid," the younger Gryffindor concluded hastily.

"It wasn't stupid," John tried to comfort him. "That's just my view on the matter – you could still ask him, I mean, you never know, right?" He gave Alec a smile although his every fiber fought against him on the inside. He knew he had no right to be that possessive of Sherlock, even if he felt these things lately.

"Oh, no, that's alright," Alec smiled back and got up again. "You know him best, you really do. It's like… your two parts of a whole-" he stopped himself in the middle of his sentence, eyes going wide. John didn't like that at all and before Alec could say one more thing, he told him: "We're best friends, that's all."

Alec nodded slowly, a bit unsure, but still smiling. "Thanks for your opinion, though. I'm going to leave you alone, I'm sure you've still got a lot of work…" He waved and then disappeared between the shelves, but just when John slowly exhaled and tried to concentrate again, Alec poked his head around the closest shelf again and told him: "Maybe you should talk to him about… about the whole romance stuff. You know, he could surprise you."

And with that, he finally disappeared and left an even more confused John behind. All the Keeper knew was that Alec certainly hadn't talked about the romance stuff regarding _other people_. And as much as John burnt to know what Sherlock though of their current relationship, what he thought about everything they did together, saw together, talked about- he also feared the answer, more than anything else.

X

While John was confused, Sherlock was, too, and the genius didn't like the feeling at all. It was new, uncomfortable and extremely unwelcome.

Now, with John being busy more than ever before, with his duties as Prefect and school champion (and the fact that he actually cared about his education), there were a lot less adventure or at least spending-time-together going on and Sherlock, who'd never had a problem with being alone before, found himself missing, actually missing John's company.

It started out with talking to him, waiting for his opinion and not getting it, to sitting on a chair, staring at the door and willing it to open and John to walk through – something that unsurprisingly never happened, at least not by simply Sherlock's willpower.

This new feeling of 'missing John' didn't stop in the evenings, though, and that was the really disturbing part. Sleeping was always a bothersome activity, mostly because it wasn't really an activity at all, and Sherlock was more often not-sleeping than doing it, because he found it hard to fall asleep by himself now that he'd grown accustomed to having John next to him.

The newest addition to the list of 'feelings regarding John Watson' had been a feeling he'd had before, back in the summer. The kissing feeling. Because, astonishing as it sounded, Sherlock had had it again since then. 27 times. And the last 6 times had been on the same day, which meant that the occurrence of this feeling was rapidly increasing, getting stronger and more frequently by day. It had also occurred when John had been announced school champion.

Sherlock's strong competitive sense, the need to be better (because he was!), had been completely silent although he had counted on reacting angry at not being chosen – well, for the beginning, he hadn't counted on any emotion because he had learnt to tame them, to control them, to use them the way he wanted and not let them use him, but if he'd had to bet, he'd bet on feeling angry about not being champion. However, when John's name had been announced, he'd felt the _kissing feeling_ again, which was extremely strange and out of place.

When the genius looked down, he realized that his fingers were tapping the leather cover of the Rainbow Glass and, following his brain's track of thought, he pulled out the Indigo lens, which was supposed to help with deep contemplation and insight. Not sure how to go on about it, he stood in front of the mirror and watched his mirrored image through the lens while thinking.

From the extensive study of other people over the years, he knew that his and John's relationship was considered special, because other people wouldn't have bothered to put up with him in the first place, much less after the danger and surely not after their fight in the fourth year. However, John was different, he needed excitement and danger, he couldn't be stopped and he never thought little of Sherlock, no matter how not-good he was being.

They also had very intimate knowledge of each other, had saved each other's lives numerous times, John knew about his infection with lycanthropy, knew of his addiction, had helped him when he was vomiting and feeling like his body was dying and all of that was definitely not something you found in your usual friendship.

John was also so dull and ordinary at times – but then again, he never _really_ was, it was all just a layer with many more interesting layers underneath. Also, body contact, invasion of personal space by John was tolerable.

And now, the most recent change. The clear attraction in John's body language, the possessiveness Sherlock felt over him, and the fact that he now thought about engaging in such a dull activity like kissing John. Holding John's hand. Running his fingers through John's hair. More kissing.

It distracted Sherlock from everything that was important – the experiments, the mysteries, finding Moriarty – but with John, _he didn't mind._

JohnJohnJohnJohnJohnJohnJohnJohnJohnJohnJohnJohnJo hnJohnJohnJohnJohnJohnJohnJohn.

Everything was exceptional when it came to John. As if the short, blond, ordinary, nothing-special, wanna-be-doctor Gryffindor who smelled of tea and sun and home was something special.

When the Indigo lens pulsated all of the sudden and then slowly went opaque, Sherlock felt strangely at peace with himself and for a precious, precious moment, his mind was quiet and he saw nothing but John in front of his eyes. John, whom he maybe, quite possibly, loved.

X

As if the weather had only been waiting for December (and with the last month, the first task of the Tournament) to come around, it changed overnight and the cold rain now came down in snowflakes, covering the grounds under a knee-high layer within a few hours.

John met up with the other two champions, dressed in his warmest clothes – who knew what awaited them, after all – and he smiled when he saw Rebecca wrapped in a long, thick woolen coat and a matching knitted scarf and hat, leaving only a short space for the tip of her nose and her glasses to peek out. Yves, too, had somehow managed to get warmer clothes and he, for the first time, didn't look freezing.

Soon enough, the three Headmasters appeared and, after greeting their protégés, ordered them to follow them down to the Quidditch pitch, where the first task would take place.

The pitch was surrounded by a newly planted hedge but even without it, they wouldn't have been able to see what was awaiting them since the bright snow that was still falling from the sky limited their sight enormously. John thought he could see some grey blobs on the ground of the pitch, but then they were directed into a tent at the edge of the field where they could sit down and wait for their turn.

"Welcome to the First Task!" Professor McGonagall announced and looked over the three contestants. "Since Hogwarts is hosting the Tournament this year, our champion will go out last. As the only girl, Ms. Schmidt will begin, followed by Mr. Gabin. You are not allowed to take anything but your wand with you for this task, although all spells are allowed. The goal of the first task is to find a Griffin Wing and take it with you over the finishing line. Everything else will arise from the field. Are there any questions?"

"What happens if we don't find the Griffin Wing or don't make it to the finishing line?" Rebecca asked.

"If you complete the task with the Wing and get over the line, you will get more points than if you can't complete both parts."

At that, the three champions nodded and when no one had any more questions, the three Headmasters of the schools wished them good luck and disappeared from the tent.

The students were checked if they carried something besides their wands, the wands were checked if they were fully functional and not bewitched or cursed and then a group of Ministry wizards came in and positioned themselves at the entrance of the small tent they were gathering in in order to keep an eye on the champions.

When a bell sounded, one of the Ministry wizards called out: "REBECCA SCHMIDT!" and John gave the German one last encouraging nod, which she returned with a somewhat pained face before tightening the grip around her wand, taking a deep breath and stepping out of the tent.

John could hear the crowd roar and applause starting and then it went completely silent when Rebecca began the task.

John looked over to where Yves was sitting and noticed how pale the other boy looked. He pondered if he should start a conversation, but when being chosen as school champion, he'd quickly found out that the French boy didn't speak much English. He could follow a conversation and did understand, but he rarely replied when he was spoken too, so John just stayed where he was.

It was still silent from outside and John felt his thoughts wander to the first task, still wondering what exactly was going on out there that was this silent. His musings were interrupted after a while when the crowd gasped and he tensed on his chair. From then on, the sounds of a fight were coming from the outside; the roaring of a creature, smashing, and the sound of breaking stone and, at one point, an explosion. The crowd went deadly silent after that and suddenly the Healers and Madame Pomfrey started hurrying around, the tent-door flew open and Professor McGonagall and Herr Maier hurried in with the unconscious Rebecca on a stretcher between them.

John was on his feet within a moment and jogged over, eyes scanning the girl worriedly and he did a double take when he saw the giant burn marks on her left side, going all the way from her cheek down over her left arm and hip to the leg, having destroyed most of her coat and clothes which now looked like rags. She had minor cuts in her face and her right arm was dangling down from the stretcher in a weird angle, possibly broken.

It was weird for John to look at the German girl, because besides the obvious fact that she was female, the curly hair and her height were strikingly familiar. Sherlock's hair was darker, blackish-brown, and he was a lot skinnier (not that that meant something – he was skinnier than most boys and girls at Hogwarts after all), but aside of that, having an unconscious, curly-haired person on the ground didn't exactly help in soothing John down.

"Out of the way, Watson," he was startled out of his worries by McGonagall and quickly stepped aside to let the Healer's through. From the looks of it, Rebecca was going to be alright, since no one shouted or was in too much of a hurry, but the wounds did look nasty and John asked himself worriedly if they had to face dragons – that would've explained the burn marks. But dragons had been the task from the last Tournament and he didn't think they would repeat the first task – that would've been too predictable.

Yves was white as a sheet by now and when Professor McGonagall and Herr Schmidt had left the tent again and "YVES GABIN!" was called, John couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for the poor boy to be up next. The advantage in being last was that John at least could concentrate and try to remember useful spells he knew against fire creatures.

A sudden tumult at the entrance of the tent caught his attention and he heard a really familiar voice huff in annoyance. "Don't be ridiculous – had I wanted to tell John about the task I had found my way in without coming to the tent-door! Besides, he wouldn't allow me to help him cheat anyway."

John involuntarily grinned at Sherlock's – because of course it was him – words and stood to see what was going on. From the looks of it, Sherlock had managed to convince the Ministry wizard standing guard that he could get to John and, escorted by the bulky man, quickly strode over to where John was standing.

John expected Sherlock to stop in front of him, but to his surprise, Sherlock didn't slow down but, without hesitation, entered right into John's personal space, looped his arms around the perplex Gryffindor and pulled him right into a bone-crushing hug.

The Slytherin nestled his head in the crook of John's neck, and while John was still frozen in spot, he heard Sherlock low hiss: _"Hug me!",_ feeling hot breath ghost over his ear and the side of his neck and soft curls tickle at his skin.

Quickly doing as Sherlock asked, John finally willed his limbs to move and tentatively wrapped his arms around Sherlock's back, too, and with one last look at the Ministry wizard who watched them closely, closed his eyes because that felt more natural.

"I just came to wish you good luck," Sherlock stage-whispered, loud enough for their watcher to hear but as if he meant to say it to John privately.

John felt his heartbeat picking up pace and then remember he should probably answer something, so he mumbled "Uh, thanks," when he felt Sherlock press even closer – and then something poked into his _chest._

He flushed bright red instantly before chastising himself for letting his thought fall into the gutter and another low hiss of Sherlock that rumbled through both of their chests made him concentrate. _"Accio."_

The more he concentrated on the shape of the object on the inside of Sherlock's coat, the better he could feel it and he then realized that it was Sherlock's Rainbow Glass. He cleared his throat and pressed Sherlock close one more time before gently loosening his grip around the Slytherin and stepping back a bit. He smiled up and, seemingly ignoring the Ministry wizard, told Sherlock: "Thank you for stopping by. Didn't think you would come."

Sherlock, smiling broadly for the watching wizard to see – his fake smile, John noticed – made a dismissive gesture and told him: "There's more to me than meets the eye," with a playful wink and for everyone else in the room, it must've looked like two friends teasing each other. Or, going by the intimate hug, more than friends. When this realization hit John, he felt his cheeks heat up again, but for now he had to concentrate on the facts at hand – namely, Sherlock trying to tell him something.

The genius obviously thought it fit that John, who was only allowed to take his wand into the first task, summoned the Rainbow Glass from Sherlock's coat and the 'playful' notion of "there's more to me than meets the eye" meant something, too. "More than meets the eye." John was obviously supposed to take the Rainbow Glass to look at something that else wouldn't have caught his interest.

He smiled back and looked Sherlock straight in the eye, aiming to make it obvious that he'd understood and from the way Sherlock's eyes narrowed down the slightest bit, he understood and, with one last cheerful "Good luck!" he turned on the spot and left.

"I need to check you in case he gave you something," the Ministry wizard then announced and John willingly spread his arms and legs while the wizard did a quick check. When he didn't find anything, he gave the Gryffindor an apologetic look and said: "Alright. Thank you for your cooperation."

About ten minutes after Sherlock's visit, another roar was audible and the crowd went wild again. The sounds of fighting drifted over and then after a particularly loud roar that died down slowly, applause. From the looks of it, Yves had completed the task and John took one deep breath and straightened his back as the Ministry wizard at the entrance looked over and called "JOHN WATSON!" John came through the tent and pushed the tent-doors open, stepping into the bright, snowy landscape to start the first task.

X

He allowed his eyes a moment to adjust to the stinging brightness that was the Quidditch pitch in winter. The stands were filled with every single student and teacher of Hogwarts and the two visiting schools and John thought he even saw one or two ghosts hovering at the sides of the field, although he couldn't be sure since they didn't exactly stand out against the pure white snow.

John could've found Sherlock (and his friends, for that matter) with closed eyes, especially since Greg, Mike and Zack were the ones who were probably cheering the loudest. Only when he'd found Sherlock's eyes and nodded slightly, he let his eyes roam over the pitch and took in the first task. The grey things he'd seen when coming down to the pitch this morning were stone statues, casually draped all over the sandy pit and looking eerily in the soft snow piling at their pedestals and falling from the sky. Over all, the silence that now fell over the pit, combined with the soft fall of snow and the fact that John seemed to be the only living thing on the whole field gave the impression of a rope of sand.

True, the Gryffindor had been slightly worried about the task – find the Griffin Wing and cross the finishing line – that had not exactly been detailed, but from the looks of it, the hardest thing was going to be to find the statue of a Griffin and get the wing. Of course John didn't believe it was going to be that easy, but he had a good overview over the pitch and as far as he could see, he was alone with a bazillion statues.

He raised his wand and made a tentative step towards the first statue to examine it more closely. It was one of a mermaid sitting on a stone and staring off into the distance. John allowed himself to marvel at it for a moment, because it was very detailed – he could even count the scales on her fish tail and he blushed when his eyes roamed over her bare chest. He quickly looked up to see her face and was taken aback when he could not only see the basic proportions, meaning eyes, nose and mouth, but small wrinkles where they would be at a living person and her long, flowing hair looked almost soft. Aware of the eyes of everyone on him, John carefully reached out, half-expecting it to feel like real hair under his fingers, but when his fingertips came in contact with the cold, hard stone, it was just that – stone.

Shaking his head slightly, he stepped back, chastising himself for his weird behaviour and then slowly made his way past the mermaid statue, keeping out a watchful eye on his surroundings. When he had passed the mermaid, he found himself standing between two statues, one of a giant eagle with spread wings and captured in a position that looked as if it was just swooping down to catch its prey, and the other one was of some sort of angel. The angel had wings on its back, too, and was wearing a long, flowing gown, but John couldn't see its face because it was hidden between the hands of the statue, as if the angel was weeping and didn't want to show its face.

John shuddered and quickly looked away, not able to explain what was bothering him but also unwilling to look at the angel for longer. He walked away quickly, going around the eagle statue and then stopped in his tracks when he saw the ground in front of him. It was covered in small chunks of rock, or stone, as if one of the statues had been blown up. When John did a few more steps, he came in full view of the remains of one statue – larger chunks of stone were leading towards an empty pedestal and, following an impulse, he raised his wand and slowly stepped closer.

Behind the blown up statue, he saw another empty pedestal, but the chunks of stone around the second one were by far not as many as from the pedestal next to him. If the largest amount of chunks belonged to the first destroyed statue – where was the rest of the chunks from the second statue?

A tickle started in the back of John's neck and suddenly he had the very distinct feeling that he was being watched by something else than the audience. He whirled around, but couldn't see anything besides his own foot path in the snow on the ground and the three statues he'd passed already. There was the mermaid at the beginning of the pitch, the eagle and – John narrowed his eyes.

From his current position next to the two empty pedestals, it almost looked like the angel that had been weeping in its hands beforehand was now looking at him over the tips of its fingers. But of course that was impossible.

John stared at it for a bit longer until he was convinced that it must've been the different angle – now that he was standing a bit away from the angel and had turned to the left, it simply looked as if he could see more of the statue's face - it was like passing pictures and thinking their eyes followed you, right?

Except-

Except in the Wizarding world, pictures were alive. And they _did_ follow you with their eyes.

Deciding he needed to know what the hell was going on here – especially when he remembered Sherlock's words of 'more than meets the eye' – he called out: "Accio Rainbow Glass!" and directed his eyes to the stands. A grin spread on his face when he saw a small thing come to him from Sherlock's direction and he raised his arm, plucking the Rainbow Glass easily out of the air when it was close enough. A whisper sounded through the ranks, but he ignored them and quickly pulled out the different lenses, smiling a bit when he found a few of the lenses missing already. He knew when most of them had been used, although he couldn't remember that Sherlock had ever used the Indigo one – it was something about insights and understanding oneself better, if John remembered correctly – but pushed aside the thought for the moment and looked at the remaining lenses.

Orange and green, being responsible for vitality with endurance, sexuality, life, passion and love were not exactly what he needed right now and the yellow lens didn't fit his purpose, either. Following an instinct, he pushed these lenses back into the leather case and only kept the Violet lens.

Remembering the instructions he'd read all those years ago when he had gotten the Rainbow Glass for Sherlock, he slowly turned on the spot with the lens once and then broke it in the middle. Instantly, the shards diluted into violet fog that hovered in front of John and then took the form of the Quidditch pitch. John held his breath when the fog got thicker at one point close to one side and marked his own current position as a thick ball of fog.

The Violet lens was supposed to reveal connections, on a personal as well as a spiritual level and, when broken, would indicated the position of every living being, human or animal, in the vicinity of the user of the lens.

As predicted, a large amount of thick fog balled up around the pitch next, indicating the crowd of students and teachers and John noticed that Sherlock's position, too, was marked by a thicker splotch of fog – maybe because he was the owner or-

John's musings were interrupted as he witnessed something extremely disturbing. He _had_ counted on one or maybe two other fog balls to appear on the map in front of his eyes, indicating an enemy that was supposed to make this task more difficult, but instead of just seeing one or two fog balls he found himself surrounded by at least 50 fog balls that indicated _life._

_He was standing in the middle of a giant trap._

His head shot up and, with some horror, he realized that the angel was now _definitely_ looking at him, hands lowered to its side.

X

John didn't waste another moment and dashed forward. He wasn't sure what would cause the stone figures to really come alive but he decided that he had absolutely no desire to find that out. He zig-zagged through the statues, taking in some of them on his way, like a giant three-headed dog statue that looked vaguely familiar, a unicorn, a giant serpent and a winged horse before his trained eyes – thanks to years of Quidditch training – spotted the small statue of a Griffin a bit down the way. In comparison to the other statues, the Griffin was really small, just about knee high and John took a deep breath before dashing forward even faster, wand raised and calling: "Confringo!"

The spell effectively blasted off the left wing of the Griffin Statue and John picked it up in the run, not stopping to see if the Griffin would come to life and try to tear him apart or anything. However, just when he made it past the demolished statue, the ground started to shake a bit, John tripped and landed flat on his stomach while a crumbling sound came from behind him, followed by a deep roar.

Before he could even turn around, he heard a hissing sound coming towards him rapidly and more out of instinct than of knowing what to do, he rolled around to his right, not a second to slow – with a heavy thud, the stinger of what looked like a scorpion's tail drilled itself into the ground where John's head had been seconds before.

The crowd went crazy in the background, and John could hear the shouts of his name, and that he should watch out – oh really?! – but chose to muffle all of it in favour of trying to survive the creature he was facing. And boy, what a creature it was.

John wasn't sure how the school had gotten the permission to import a bloody Manticore, and how he could've missed the statue of the sentient beast when passing it, but now that the creature with the scorpion's tail, lion's body and more or less human head snarled at him, he couldn't care less about import restrictions and whatnot.

Although the Manticore had a human face, it didn't look much human at all – if John had to guess, he'd say it was a male face, but the three rows of shark-like, sharp teeth, the red eyes and the lion's mane made it hard to distinguish female from male.

John scrambled to his feet while the creature yanked its stinger free from the ground, spluttering John in dirt, sand and snow and slowly, almost leisurely, crept closer and cocked its head. The Gryffindor expected it to roar again and maybe pounce, but instead it stopped a few meters away, scorpion tail curled up in an almost peaceful manner behind itself. And then it spoke.

"Hello. What's your name?"

The Manticore's voice was soft and smooth, definitely male and very, very nice to listen to. However, John had really not expected the creature that had just tried to impale him to make friendly conversation right now. He tried to recall what he knew about Manticores, but it wasn't much beside the fact that they, very much like dragons, were immune to most spells due to their repellant skin and that its poison was absolutely deadly. All in all, it wasn't exactly the most pleasant partner for conversation. Like, at all.

"You might as well talk to me before I devour you," the Manticore suggested when John remained defensive. The smooth voice was a sharp contrast to the ferocious exterior.

"I'm not here for talking," John replied cautiously.

"Ah, no, you're here to become a hero." The Manticore chuckled. But suddenly, his stinger raced forward again and again, John's reflexes were what saved him from being impaled right through his hard. Instead, the Manticore it a statue that split in half, raining chunks of stone down on John.

"I thought you wanted to talk," John called out, hiding behind the statue of a woman with snakes as hair.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't help myself," the creature replied, actually sounding sorry. "Now, do you want to talk or not?"

John peeked out from behind his statue. "What do you want to talk about?"

"Oh, I don't know. The weather?" The Manticore looked up to the sky and made a face. Well, as far as you could make a face when looking like a ferocious monster. "I don't like the weather in Britain. Persia is much warmer."

John figured that he as well might talk to the Manticore until he had an idea of how to defeat the monster that was immune to magic. "Well then why did you come here? Did they… uhm, catch your for this task?"

The creature licked its lips and then laughed out. "I agreed to come. A favour for someone- which reminds me… Jim sends his regards."

The world momentarily stopped. John's face fell and his heart beat faster than it had before – come to think of it, as always when in danger, he'd been remarkably calm before. But now, at the mention of that name, that one name – his left hand with the wand twitched and he clenched his fist tighter, willing it to stop.

"He said you would become mad at the mention of his name," the Manticore observed and then, without warning pounced closer. John hurriedly ran from behind the Medusa-statue, only to hear it shatter when the Manticore crashed into it.

"I'm sorry, I just don't think it's polite to talk to me while hiding," the creature apologized and that threw John off quite a bit – it was hard to handle the deadly situation when the beast was being bloody polite and kept apologizing. "You know, for being a human, Jim is really extraordinary. I tried to eat him, he wasn't very careful when he came to close to my cave, but he has his way with words… In the end, we made a deal. I didn't eat him and he brought me here. I would like to feast on you now."

John's head swum from all the information and the odd first thought was that he needed to tell this to Sherlock – if he happened to survive this. Well, he would surely not end up as lunch for this blabbering beast. All he needed was weapon. He glanced around and found in frustration that there was absolutely nothing around. His Firebolt, if he summoned it, wouldn't help much – he could only flee and cross the finishing line with the Griffin Wing but without defeating the Manticore, which would definitely end in not winning this task and John wanted to win. Maybe this was silly, and stupid considering the Manticore was lethal and working with Moriarty, but John's ambition was enormous. However, all there was were the stupid statues and snow and-

The statues. The heavy, stone-y statues.

Irritated by the boy's lack of response, the Manticore growled and pounced forward again, looking almost offended, but now John had a plan and that made everything so much easier. He once again started to zig-zag between the statues, hearing the beast come after him and then he suddenly turned sharp to the left and heard the tell-tale hiss of the stinger coming towards him. He jumped to the side, heard the stinger hit the ground and with a whip of his wand and a call of "EXPULSO!", toppling over the statue of sphinx which burst into chunks and buried the Manticore that was still busy with freeing its stinger from the icy ground under tons of heavy stone.

John was hidden behind a giant cloud of dust and pieces of stone for a moment and was almost shaken off his feet from the rumble when the mass of stone came down on his pursuer, but when the cloud of dust finally cleared away, all that was visibly of the Manticore was the tip of the stinger and one lion paw twitching lightly.

The roar that came from the crowd (as well as all other sounds) only then hit John again, as if he came up to the surface after being under water for a long time and he punched the air with the Griffin Wing, grin spreading on his face.

He then saw the finishing line about 100 meters away and, clutching the Wing close to his chest, quickly jogged over before another statue could come to life and tried to kill him. When he crossed the line, red sparks went off, applause branded through the stands and John, panting heavily, dropped the Wing to wave at his friends. When his eyes found Sherlock's, his grin even widened at the appreciative nod the Slytherin gave him.

X

After John was checked by the Healers, the three champions were led out to stand in front of the tribune where the judges – Professor McGonagall, Madame Maxime and Herr Maier – and the Ministry official who had to overlook the whole spectacle were seated.

John almost gasped when he looked right into the collected face of none other than Mycroft Holmes who didn't indicate that he knew John, but for John's Holmes-trained eyes, it looked like the older Holmes' eyes glistened a bit when he let his eyes roam over the champions.

Without further ado, Mycroft got up from his place at the end of the jury table and, leaning on his umbrella, spoke up, voice magically amplified. "The results of the first task of this year's Triwizard Tournament are as following: On the third place, for making it to the finishing line, but losing the Griffin Wing – Rebecca Schmidt of the Reichenbach Facility of Magic!"

Applause started, and Rebecca, who still looked extremely worn-out and was supported by one of the Healers, smiled at the crowd. When the noise died down, Mycroft fixed his gaze on the two remaining champions and now John felt himself getting giddy – of course he wanted to win, that was natural, right? He'd finished his task – but he didn't know how Yves had dealt, so it was hard to tell who the winner would be.

"On the second place, for making it to the finishing line with the Griffin Wing but without defeating the creature assigned to him – Yves Gabin from the Beauxbatons Academy of Magic!"

Through the applause that exploded especially on the Gryffindor sight of the spectator stands, no one could actually hear Mycroft announce John the winner of the First Task, but no one really cared and within seconds, John was surrounded by his friends and Hogwarts students in general, who lifted him on their shoulders to celebrate his epic win.

X

The party to celebrate John had been taken to the Gryffindor common room and Sherlock, who'd of course been invited in, just like students from basically every other house, as well as Rebecca and some Germans and Yves, who was the only French student to appear, but appeared to have a fairly good time, was currently standing next to John in a quiet corner, being filled in on what the Manticore had said about Moriarty.

"I'll talk to Mycroft later – he can probably trace back from where the Manticore came. Maybe that will give us a clue," Sherlock thought loudly.

John nodded, but was not in the mood to talk about Moriarty any more when there was a celebration in his honour and the amount of alcohol going around promised to make it a fun evening. Of course he planned on being responsible, he always was when it came to drinking, but the pleasant warm fuzz that had already settled deep in his guts was a nice change to being in mortal danger only just earlier.

Thinking back to the first task, another thing came to his mind. "Thanks for showing up in the tent earlier," he told Sherlock, offering him a warm smile.

"I knew you would over-react when they carried away the German," Sherlock explained with a shrug.

John flushed. "I didn't mean it that way – I mean, you know, for hinting me to the Rainbow Glass and… and besides, I wasn't over-reacting!"

"John, your protectiveness is a valued character trait and for a simple mind like yours-"

"Simple mind?!"

"-the resemblance between Rebecca and me-"

"Are you calling me stupid?"

"-was predictably affecting you," Sherlock finished, unfazed of John's half-hearted protests.

"Yes, well, you do get into trouble all the time, so I was definitely not over-reacting," John sulked, but there was no real antipathy. "And you don't look like a girl," the Gryffindor added, a bit quieter than before.

"As sound as this observation is, considering my lack of primary sexual characteristics like a vagina or secondary sexual characteristics like breasts, I very much-"

"Sherlock I'm not nearly drunk enough to talk over your lack of boobs-" John interrupted, red splotches more prominent on his cheeks now and Sherlock, dismayed by his friend's interruption turned to scoffing at John's obvious discomfort in talking about sexual characteristics when Sherlock knew for a fact that John's sex life had been extended so far as to having seen all of the aforementioned, considering his three former girlfriends who had been willing to partake in sexual activities.

"What's this talk about boobs?" Greg interrupted, appearing next to them with Zack and Rebecca accompanying him.

John watched horrified how Sherlock turned towards the German champion and started: "In fact, we were talking about your-" and quickly thrust his beer into Greg's hand before clasping a hand over Sherlock's mouth and dragging him away, shooting Greg, Zack and Rebecca, who looked slightly confused, an apologetic look.

"Remember the talk we had about things that were good and not good to tell people?" John hissed, cheeks radiating with heat while Sherlock looked mildly amused.

"From your reaction, I figure that was not good?"

"A bit not good, yes."

"I'm sorry then," Sherlock offered, sounding not sorry at all and from the way his eyes glinted although his face was collected as always, John had the strong suspicion that his friend knew exactly what he had been doing for once and… was teasing him.

"Well, if Alec had heard you talking about boobs, he might not crush on you any longer," John mumbled, and snickered when Sherlock's face turned from smug to intrigued panic, as if the Slytherin couldn't decide what to do with this new information. John momentarily felt bad for exposing Alec like that, but seeing as the younger Gryffindor hadn't exactly pledged him silent and, well, the last comment he had giving, John was okay with stating this to tease Sherlock a bit.

Sherlock, very unlike his usual self, didn't seem able to come up with a retort. He wasn't stupid, he'd know that Woodlight had been acting strange around for quite some time, and he'd recognized the telltale signs of arousal, but somehow, he just hadn't connected them to himself. He'd thought they'd been for… well, for John.

It made sense, right? John, with his toned body, his light hair, the deep blue eyes and the fact that he was not-dull, not-boring and always-surprising, being kind and gentle and strong and protective-

But that was how he, Sherlock, saw John, the genius realized and then everything came back to him – John's seventeenth birthday, the Indigo lens, Mycroft's sly comments when he'd put them in the room with the double bed together. Of course Alec had crushed on him and not on John, because he was too stupid to see how utterly wonderful John could be – but Sherlock saw it and now, in the dim light of the Gryffindor room with god-awful music, intoxicated, celebrating students and a flushed John right in front of him, he wanted nothing that to make stop John blushing at the mention of girl's breasts, or teasing Sherlock about an unimportant crush of a dorm-mate, but to yell at John that all of that was not important.

However, Sherlock did nothing of sorts, because he didn't do yelling and John was straight and emotions were hurtful and unwelcome and caring wasn't an advantage and-

"Sherlock? Hey, I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable or something," John's voice sounded through his thoughts and when Sherlock focused on his friend, he noticed the worried look in the Gryffindor's eyes and the hand that rested warmly on his upper arm. John was worried, sensed the turmoil in Sherlock's mind and even if he interpreted it for the wrong reasons, he meant to comfort the Slytherin.

John watched his friend closely, relieved that the vacant look Sherlock had suddenly worn had been replaced by an attentive stare again and now he was sorry for teasing Sherlock with Alec's crush on him. The longer he looked at his friend, the more intrigued he got. His hand was still resting on Sherlock's arm and although he didn't exactly grip it tightly, Sherlock made no motion of shrugging him off. The genius' silver eyes were locked on John's blue one's and as often, he let Sherlock read him, trying to put as much honesty as he could in his look.

And then they were caught again - the same thing that had happened back in the summer, the day he'd met Sherlock's family. The urge to just pull Sherlock closer, to never let go of him, to kiss him – it was there, stronger than before and John almost knew for sure that Sherlock could read his intent, could see it plain obvious in his body language, but the Slytherin didn't pull back and maybe he should just-

They both wouldn't find out because a cheering crowd suddenly scooped up John and carried him through the room, chanting his name once again and John laughed along, but kept his eyes on Sherlock, who stared after him, no emotion on his face but his eyes strangely alive, gleaming through the darkness.

The rest of the night was happy, funny, loud and amazing and John enjoyed it very much, slowly forgetting about what had happened before, chatting to his friends with Sherlock by his side as usual. Rebecca and the others told him about what had happened to her and why she'd messed up – the statue that had come to live during her turn had been one of a Blast-Ended Skrewt, something the Hogwarts students were more than familiar with since these creatures were hybrids bred by the Hogwarts Game Keeper Hagrid, but they were obviously unknown to the German students and Rebecca had almost been to the finishing line with the Griffin Wing when the beast had used its ability to create explosions from their ends to knock over the unassuming girl and had effectively sent her through the air and over the finishing line, but she'd lost the Griffin Wing in the process.

Yves had had to face the statue of a Hebridean Black that had come to life. The pitch-black dragon from the Hebrides Islands, known to be the most aggressive of the British dragons, had caused the French quite some trouble and when he'd realized he couldn't actually defeat the beast, Yves had run past the finishing line, leaving the teachers and professionals to deal with the dragon.

However, although both foreign champions were disappointed at losing the first task, neither of them had bad feelings towards John and when the party ended somewhere in the middle of the night, everyone was happy. Rebecca was happy to be recovering from the explosion easily. Yves was happy to have survived the raging dragon. John was happy to have won. And Sherlock… Sherlock felt genuine happiness because John was alive, _so very alive_, _bursting_ with life and right next to him. Where he belonged.

* * *

_**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own Hogwarts, the Wizarding World, BBC Sherlock (and Doctor Who, since I mention that quite often, too), I only like the idea of putting all of that together.  
_


	17. Sixth Year - Interlude: Yule Ball

The joy about winning the First Task didn't go on for forever, because only three days later, Professor McGonagall announced that the Dancing Lessons for the Hogwarts students would take place the following Friday afternoon. There was no point in protesting, though, because not only all of the boys (and most of the girls) had no clue about classical dancing, no – the champions were traditionally supposed to open the ball and John had absolute no intention of embarrassing himself because he didn't know how to waltz.

At first Greg and the rest of the dorm teased him for having to attend the lessons, but McGonagall threatened her whole House with severe loss of points if they didn't show up so the plans of Greg and Zack of just not attending the lessons was quickly dissolved. Neither of them wanted their House to suffer, especially since there was no chance of gaining points by Quidditch this year and, well, the Gryffindors had the tendency to lose more points than actually gain them, at least during classes.

To say that Sherlock wasn't too enthusiastic about having to attend dancing lessons was a mild way to put it and the Slytherin struggled until the very afternoon of the lessons in an attempt to escape John's stoic set of mind of him attending. The genius didn't care about being the source of lost House Points, but John was well-aware of how much the other Slytherins already hated Sherlock and there was no need to give them another reason to try and teach Sherlock a lesson.

The result of all the threats from the side of the teachers and the resignation of the damned from the side of the students was the Great Hall filled with girls in one corner and boys in the other, eyeing each other suspiciously over the vast, empty field in the middle where Mr. Filch had set up an old gramophone.

Sherlock was leaning against a wall, displaying a mix of displease and boredom, spiced up with some nasty looks at John, who pretended to be oblivious. Let the genius sulk, was his motto.

Finally, Professor McGonagall stepped into the middle, between the boys and girls, and greeted them. "Welcome to the Dancing Lessons for this year's Yule Ball. Dancing, when done correctly, can be a beautiful, but also… uhm, proud way to express oneself-"

Most of the boys either snickered or made a face while the girls seemed quite interested in McGonagall's words. "-and it is a long lasting tradition at the Yule Ball. Now, there has been a number of so-called _suggestions _to alter the music that is traditionally played at the Ball and, on public demand, the staff agreed on playing Muggle music as well as Wizard band music-"

Her words were drowned in cheers and John, as well as some other boys decided that at least having normal music instead of classical stuff – or worse, some of the weird Wizard bands – was better than nothing. Obviously, dancing was still going to suck, but not so badly.

"Calm down, will you?" the Headmistress finally called out and, with a somehow pained look watched her students. Sherlock noticed that her eyes wandered over the crowd and he figured that she wanted to leave a good impression with the foreign students, which had come to attend the dancing lessons as well. Although, going by the looks on most of their faces, they were simply here to see the British make complete idiots of themselves. Sherlock never wished he was somewhere else more than today. Not because of the dancing. But because it was pointless and stupid in general.

Ah, it was all John's fault. John, who had dragged him here to watch him learn to dance with a stupid girl-

The fairly new emotion that Sherlock had discovered along with the kissing feeling, and that he knew was jealousy sent a hot wave through his body and he barely caught himself from growling. He had to pull himself together! Sherlock Holmes didn't growl, wasn't jealous and if John had wanted to kiss him, he'd done so after the crowd had carried him away at the party. Or maybe the next day. Or the day after that. But he hadn't and now he was learning to dance because he was a champion and had to open the ball with a partner (and Sherlock, who never bet, would've bet his whole trust fund on that girl being Sarah).

"You know you look pretty scary when you try to make my head explode or something?" John whispered and startled Sherlock from his thoughts. The genius knew his face hadn't given him away to anyone else, but of course JOHN could read him, just as easy as Sherlock could read everyone else.

"Don't be ridiculous," was all he answered, though, and John gave him one last skeptical look before returning his attention to McGonagall, who was currently trying to get one of the boys to come up and demonstrate the first few dance steps.

Obviously, no one wanted to do it and Sherlock sighed deeply before roughly pushing and nudging his way through the crowd. He had absolutely no desire to participate in this whole debacle, but the faster McGonagall could demonstrate what she wanted, the faster the others would get going and the faster this afternoon would be over, leaving him to finally do something productive – the mold he'd been cultivating for the past two weeks was waiting to be analyzed.

"What are you doing Sher-" he heard John call after him and then he stood in the first row, the Headmistress' look fell on him and she called him over.

As soon as he entered the empty space between the two groups of students, the whisper started, but people did little else and it really didn't matter.

"Excellent!" Professor McGonagall stated and then got into position as Sherlock naturally rested his right hand on her waist and took her other hand in his - a painful reminder of hours spent at the Holmes Manor, being taught to dance and well-behave because that was expected of a Holmes, after all.

The music, a traditional piece in a slow waltz time began, and, while she counted loud for the other students to understand, they moved over the floor. They only did the basic step without anything fancy, though, and when the music stopped again, she released him and, noticing his look, told him: "You may be excused, Mr. Holmes. I trust you have the same education as your brother."

"Of course, professor," he replied swiftly, tried to hide his content and with one last superior look over the other boys, swiftly left the hall, robes billowing behind him. A part of him wondered if he could've taught John to dance, but that was a ridiculous thought and instead of following this track of thoughts further, he tried to be excited for the mold awaiting him, while behind him the sound of unsure foot-steps started as the students had to find dancing partners.

Inside the Great Hall, John and Greg gaped after Sherlock for a while and finally, John was able to express his thoughts in words. "Why the hell can Sherlock dance?"

"I think the Holmeses are one of these really traditional families where the children have to learn it," Alec supplied and Zack nodded. "We did that too, back in the days, but I never had to," he added.

"Well, I know I'm never letting him down on that," Greg grinned and John, who was still torn between being awestruck and confused because he hadn't known that about Sherlock, just nudged him. Honestly, there was no reason for him to feel… sad because he hadn't known Sherlock could dance, but he felt like Sherlock left him out on something and he didn't like that feeling at all – then again, it wasn't like Sherlock was sworn to tell him every single bit from his past. _I just would like to know everything,_ John thought to himself.

Like he would like to know what Sherlock felt for him – he knew that Sherlock, although he claimed he was past trivial things like emotions, cared for him in his own, sometimes confusing ways, and he'd asked him to live together after school, so he definitely liked John, but… but now that John was attracted to him, wanted to kiss him and had attempted it two times (when they'd been interrupted, goddamn!) without Sherlock pulling back although he must've read John's intention, the Gryffindor didn't know what to think anymore.

He would've talked to Sherlock about it, but there was never the right opportunity, between being a Prefect, a School Champion, attending classes and now dance lessons.

John sighed, then, and, ignoring Greg's questioning look, smiled when Sarah came over. She was a really nice girl, and their time together had been great – but now he felt something for Sherlock that hadn't been there before and he had to ignore her attempts at flirting and concentrate on the dancing – which was, frankly, hard enough.

As he was lying in his bed that night, his head was still filled with 1-2-3, 1-2-3, forward-side-close, back-side-close, and the others groaned in their beds too, completely exhausted from box steps and whatnot. He hadn't seen Sherlock all day.

X

While obviously the eyes of the whole Great Hall were on Sherlock when he demonstrated the dance with Professor McGonagall, one set in particular watched him closely.

The young woman was standing in the back, perfectly hidden by all the other girls giggling and whispering, and an amused smile played around her lips.

Who'd known that getting involved with Jim would lead to the fascinating genius currently waltzing with the Headmistress of Hogwarts?

Jim had told her he suspected Sherlock was on his track already, and that he sooner or later would find out about her, too, so she decided for herself it was time to do something. She would meet Sherlock – on her conditions. All she needed was the perfect outfit…

X

"So, did you ask someone for the ball already?" John asked as they were sitting in the library doing their homework, one and a half weeks left until the ball was supposed to take place.

Sherlock didn't even look up from his notes. "Nope."

"You've only got less than two weeks left - if you don't ask someone soon, the nice girls will be taken." John paused for a moment. "Or, you know, the boys."

"So?" Sherlock still appeared disinterested.

Well, then. Time to drop the bomb. "I could ask Sarah if she's got any friends without partners? Or maybe you'll ask Molly Hooper - she seems to like you-"

Sherlock interrupted him. "You're going with Sarah Sawyer?"

John nodded confused when the pale eyes of his friend rested on his face questioningly. "Yeah, why? Did you wanna ask her out?"

"Don't be ridiculous! No, but what happened to 'I don't want to talk to her anyways'?"

The Gryffindor flushed. "We've been talking a lot more since-"

"Since your victory in the first task," Sherlock finished, almost sounding... disapproving – but surely John had just imagined that. However, he wasn't stupid and knew what Sherlock was implying.

"Well, as it happens, I'm the school champion and as such supposed to open the ball which I can't do without a partner," he snapped, more forcefully than probably would have been necessary but who the hell was Sherlock to criticize him or his dating choices anyway?

He already spent most of his day running around with the genius and while he never mentioned the nights, they were obviously there – nights spent thinking of Sherlock, wishing, longing and yet knowing that Sherlock didn't want any of _that_ kind of attention. And Sarah was there, and she was nice, and she wanted that attention and could give it back and John liked her well enough and he liked kissing her and holding her hand and dancing with her (well the dancing not so much, because that was something that still remained an enigma as of yet) so if he could have it with her instead of no-one, he'd gladly chose that. The days with Sherlock were better than no Sherlock at all.

But no, Mr. I-am-a-genius-and-my-word-is-law Holmes had to be mean and call out John on something that he already knew deep within. But, as said before, having a nice girl to accompany him to the Ball was definitely worth something, no matter if it was because she really liked him or maybe just was interested now that he was popular again. Whatever. None of Sherlock's bloody business.

However, the original point of the conversation had been Sherlock's lack of interest in finding someone to dance with, so John decided to drop the topic of Sarah for the moment and instead asked: "So what about Molly? I know she's not going with Greg because they decided it would be awkward since they're not together anymore and I think he's going with Rebecca anyways."

"I'm not asking Molly Hooper out on a tedious school dance," Sherlock stated pointedly and then rustled with the Daily Prophet lying on the table. He picked it up and disappeared completely behind the newspaper – the typical Sherlockian way of ending a conversation. Or avoiding one.

Now, John finally caught track of what was going on. "...You're not going, right?"

The lack of response was answer enough.

"Oh come on, it's going to be fun!"

"I don't think it is considered 'fun' to be around people one can't stand, spending an evening with things – namely, dancing and the ever-so-important socialising-" Sherlock made it sound like it was something incredibly gross, "- one doesn't like."

"But you like Greg and the others," John protested weakly, trying everything to convince Sherlock to come. He didn't add the quite pathetic "But you like me" that was forming in his head, but it wasn't like there was a Yule Ball every year, after all, and John really wanted his best friend there. However, said best friend clearly had enough of this conversation.

"I'm not asking anyone out for the Ball, I'm not going to agree on a date and I'm not going to the Yule Ball – and now I'd appreciate if you'd stop your nagging because it makes you sound repetitive and therefore extremely dull," Sherlock told him with a serious look over his newspaper and John shut up, more out of resignation than of anything else.

He'd hoped for Sherlock to at least attend the Yule Ball – they could've had so much fun together, and with everyone else, but the genius seemed determined and John knew that if he was like this, there was no point in even trying to change his mind. The Yule Ball would be held without Sherlock Holmes and John felt incredibly sad about that.

X

Two days before the Yule Ball, Sherlock made his way up to the Prefect's Bathroom in the middle of the night - John always chastised him for using it, but never stopped him although he, with his position as Prefect could've done so easily. But Sherlock knew that John thought that if he could figure out the password by himself, he'd earned himself the right to use the bathroom so that was it. And Sherlock only used the bathroom in the middle of the night or the early morning hours, when no one else was around, anyways, so he usually never bothered anyone and no one besides John noticed Sherlock using the posh bathroom. Or so they'd thought.

When Sherlock now told the statue of Boris the Bewildered the password, he got access and stepped in, deeply in thoughts. On the way over to the pool, he dropped his dressing gown and pyjama pants carelessly on the floor and slipped into the pool-like tub turning on some of the taps to get the mixture of soaps and scents he preferred before leaning back against the edge of the pool.

Of course 'soaking' in the bathtub was a rather boring thing to do, but some of the oils the students could add to the water were stimulating if added in the right amount and Sherlock had decided long ago that he could think about things just as easily in the tub as he could've in an empty classroom or his dorm. Even better – the bathroom, when occupied, was locked to the other students, so there was no chance of being interrupted by mindless blabber.

Finally content with the mixture, temperature and height of the water, he closed the taps and leaned back once again, already planning out the second task of the Triwizard Tournament – he'd overheard the three Headmasters talking about allowing another student to participate along with the Champion of each school and while Sherlock was relatively sure that John would chose him, he probably needed to do something to assure that – John still wore this hurt look whenever someone mentioned the Yule Ball and Sherlock knew it was because of his refusal to go... but going there just for the sake of manipulating John into choosing him as a partner for the second task was the option Sherlock wanted to keep in reserve, in case he couldn't come up with something else. After all, the Yule Ball was tedious and if it could be avoided, Sherlock would do so.

But then again, John didn't even knew that he could take a partner with him yet, so maybe all of Sherlock's possible effort would be in vain.

The genius knew he needed to be part of the second task – Moriarty surely would have his fingers in the pie and while the Slytherin didn't exactly want to sneak into the task (Mycroft would know and pull him out immediately), it would have to do if John didn't take him along...

Sherlock was interrupted in his musings when he heard foot-steps _(light, soft – bare feet, almost certainly naked, someone taking a bath, someone female – knew the password to the Bathroom so either the Head Girl or any of the female prefects – no they were on patrolling duty or asleep at this hour of the night, so Quidditch captain – only _one_ female Quidditch captain)_ and looked up to see a very naked, very beautiful girl, a bit older than him, coming through the semi-darkness.

Sherlock, for a moment, regretted not having lit up all of the torches, but he didn't show any sign of distress or surprise and simply stayed where he was, in the water, back against one of the pool walls – and painfully aware that his wand was in the pocket of his dressing gown, unreachable.

The young Quidditch Captain smiled, showing off pearl-white teeth and beautiful features as she came to a halt right in front of the pool, one hand placed on her hip.

"Miss Adler, I presume," Sherlock stated and kept his eyes firmly on the young woman's.

"I'm impressed, Mr. Holmes," she replied, chuckling. "Most men – and women – would've looked down by now." That was not exactly an answer, but Sherlock hadn't asked a question. After all, who else could it have been. He'd heard all about Irene Adler and, yes, he felt some admiration for her _(__quite fascinated by the really powerful Confusing Concoction she administered to an angry Prefect, _had been his words back in Second Year_)_ – he'd never given her much thought, though.

"Most men and women are dull," Sherlock replied easily. She grinned and slowly stepped closer until she was standing at the edge of the pool. To be honest, Sherlock didn't like his position of being so vulnerable in the water while she had the advantage of being out of it, but he was good enough to not show it.

"Is there a reason why you want to talk to me?" Sherlock asked instead, eyes still on Irene's face.

"Why don't you deduce me?" Her voice was teasing and she shifted her weight, displaying her naked body some more.

Without hesitation, Sherlock then dropped his gaze, expecting to find the answers written all over Ire-

_Nothing._

He was too much in control to show his confusion and instead concentrated harder, but no matter how much he let his eyes roam over soft thighs and full hips, there was absolutely nothing he could read. He knew from logic that Irene had waited here for him – the Prefect's Bathroom was locked when someone was using it and didn't want intruders, so there was no way he'd gotten access by accident. Which left Irene wanting him here for some reason as the only option. But why?

He couldn't have lost his abilities all of the sudden, he was sure of that. A quick glance to the side, where fading wet foot-prints, lint and a few stray hairs indicated that a short, male blond – John - had used the bathroom only two to three hours earlier reassured Sherlock that everything was alright with his mind, but when his eyes darted back to the smirking Ravenclaw, he could see absolutely nothing.

Which, quite frankly, was disturbing.

"Aww, poor Sherlock, don't see something you like?" she cooed and gracefully sat down at the edge of the pool, legs dangling into the water.

Sherlock's thoughts raced, he was sure he'd been able to hide his confusion, but Irene seemed to know he couldn't deduce her.

"Cat got your tongue?" She continued. "A shame – I thought you'd talk more… really, I've been looking forward to… _talking_ with you."

Sherlock decided that he might as well could try and find out what she wanted from him – talking wasn't the only thing, obviously. Before he could say another thing, though, Irene slipped into the water and, within seconds, was standing in front of him, placing a hand on his chest and lightly pushing him backwards until his whole spine came in contact with the cold tile wall of the pool. The water was shallow enough to stand and now he was taller than Irene again, which she didn't seem to mind at all but simply leant in closer, hand still over his heart, until her lips almost touched his ear. "We could _talk_ later." And then her lips brushed over his cheek as she leant back.

It was like an electrical buzz and for a split-second, Sherlock's mouth took off on its own and a rather unintelligible "Asdfghjkl-" came tumbling out before he could catch himself. Irene's eyes glistened, but then with a sudden motion of his head, his eyes locked onto hers once more and he fired off: "I'd rather talk now, if it's all the same to you – and really, talking would be in your interest, too. You studied my habits of coming here for a while now so you could be sure to meet me here, which indicates that you wanted to speak to me in private, without being seen. Could've done it anywhere in the castle, but you prefer the exclusiveness of the Prefect's Bathroom as well as the opportunity to appear completely naked because your body is your greatest weapon. Now, since it's almost Christmas, it's highly probable that wanting to meet me now has to do with it – the only thing that gives you enough reason would be the Yule Ball the day after tomorrow. Am. I. Right?"

Irene, unlike Sherlock, wore her emotions more carelessly and he could see the awe and slight breathlessness written all over her face. Her mouth was slightly open and a smile was playing in the corners of her lips. "Brainy _so_ is the new sexy," she breathed and slowly backed away the slightest bit, still heavily invading his private space, but at least not being so incredibly close anymore.

"So what is it about the Yule Ball? Is there something planned – an assassination attempt on one of the champions? A poisoning?" Sherlock asked, still satisfied with his correct deduction of the little hints he could gather from the Ravenclaw Beater.

"Oh, love, you really are clueless sometimes-" Irene laughed amused and raised her arm to let some water run down her body before she flashed Sherlock a grin and said: "I want you to accompany me there. As my date." She stressed the last word.

"Why would I want to go there? I'm not interested in dancing; I don't care about Christmas, not to mention the fact that the room will be filled with 97% stupid people."

"There will be me." Irene splashed some water around.

"You're here right now."

"There will be John Watson."

_Tempting, yes, but John would be there with Sarah Sawyer and Sherlock could live without having to watch them suck each other's faces off eventually. In fact, it was one of the biggest reasons he didn't go._ "I see John every day."

"It would be fun?"

Sherlock just snorted as an answer and Irene shrugged smiling, indicating 'it was worth a try'. Then, she suddenly got serious.

"Just look at it as part of a game."

Sherlock's eyes were hard and cold when he searched Irene's face for a sign of… anything, really, that would've given away more of her thoughts, her knowledge of what she clearly was talking about, but aside from the knowledge that she clearly knew that she had Sherlock in the bag, there was nothing on her face for him to read.

The genius didn't know how she fit into the Great Game, the puzzle that Moriarty was, the net he had created but he wasn't going to ask because he knew he wasn't going to get an answer anyways. The pro's and con's were on display in his brain within seconds and both he and Irene knew his answer even before he spoke it out loud. He did, though, just for the sake of keeping up the appearance of the two of them having a light conversation, although there were two things going on – the audible conversation, and the psychological one; the innuendos, the double meaning, the hidden meaning.

"Alright."

"Great. I expect to meet you in the Entrance Hall at 7.30 pm sharp," Irene told him and popped the 'p' before flashing him another smile. "Underwear is optional," she added with a wink. He half-expected her to leave now, but she cocked her head and a playful smile appeared on her face as she let her hand that was still resting on his chest, slowly wander down, towards his navel.

"You know, I'm not only good at riding broomsticks," she purred, her lips inches away from Sherlock's, but this time, then Slytherin actually reacted and closed long fingers around her wrist, guiding her hand gently out of the water and away from himself.

"I decline," he told her, voice rumbling low in his chest, and while she still looked at him half-bemused and half-awestruck, he climbed out of the pool, grabbed his dressing gown, and disappeared (as graceful as possible, considering he was dripping wet).

X

When John looked around, palms a bit sweaty, he suddenly was glad that he had opted for a normal suit with simple black dress robes that looked very much like the school robes, instead of going for fancy dress robes with frill and lace like a lot of the Wizard-born students were wearing.

Greg and Mike were dressed smartly, but simple, too, but Zack and Alec were obviously suffering under the influence of their mothers, who had apparently gone for the most ridiculous dress robes they could find, to the great amusement of the three other boys.

Molly, who had agreed to go with Mike, was the first to appear at the steps of the staircase leading towards the Entrance Hall and while she glanced around a bit embarrassedly, she did look very pretty in a black dress that stopped at her knees and had silver gemstones sown to the neckline and straps. Mike, as well as the others complemented her and just when she told John that Sarah would be down in a minute, Rebecca, completely healed from the severe burns from the first task, entered the Hall, followed by some Germans and French.

She quickly greeted the group and grinning linked arms with Greg, who bowed ridiculously in front of her before complimenting her looks (something the boys definitely hadn't practiced in the dorm before, if anyone asked!). She looked very vibrant in a bright orange dress that had only one strap over the rights shoulder and was gathered just below her chest with a silver brooch and she and Greg made a nice couple, although it was all just on a friendly basis.

Finally, when John already started worrying a bit, Sarah showed up, looking very pretty in a silver dress that glittered in the light and she smiled at John, who told her she looked beautiful, before slipping her hand into his.

"The champions and their partners over here, please," Professor McGonagall suddenly called from over the door to the Great Hall and when John, Sarah and Rebecca started to walk over naturally, Greg sent them a dumbstruck look before his eyes went wide.

"Oh shit!"

John only took a second to realize what Greg had just noticed, and when he did, he cracked up. "You can't be serious-" he pressed out between laughter and Greg looked positively horrified. "Did you really forget you had to open the ball with Rebecca?!"

"I just- I just-" the other Gryffindor stuttered and looked more than a bit distressed, but McGonagall called out again and Rebecca, being more practical than the others, grabbed her horrified partner by the shoulders and told him: "Don't worry, just follow my lead," which made the others laugh even more and Greg simply followed, a lot paler in the face than before.

The four of them were almost at the door to the Great Hall when a noticeable silence fell over the Entrance Hall with the waiting students, and then the whisper started. John and Greg looked at each other questioningly before turning their heads and then they almost had a heart attack.

On the top of the staircase, Irene Adler, the most infamous student of Hogwarts, Beater and Captain of the Ravenclaw Quidditch Team, overlooked the sea of students, dressed in a long, white, flowing strapless gown, displaying a glistening necklace and matching bracelet and earrings and her hair was pinned up skillfully. However, the most striking thing about her appearance was, that her left arm was linked with someone else's right, suit-clad arm, and that someone was no-one else than Sherlock Holmes.

Before any of them could say a thing, though, McGonagall guided them into the Great Hall, one hand firmly on each of their shoulders and John had to follow, the image of Sherlock in a tight suit that fit him incredibly well burnt into his mind.

"Did you know he would come?" Greg hissed as they went into position, but a death glare from Professor McGonagall prevented John from answering and he merely shook his head before gripping Sarah's hand, placing one hand on her waist. The big wing doors to the Great Hall were opened and then the music started and the three champions – John with Sarah, Rebecca with Greg and Yves with one of the other French, possibly his girlfriend, started a slow waltz to a classical piece.

There weren't many steps, just box steps and some easy turns, so John didn't have to concentrate too much on what he was doing but could glance around and watch the crowd that slowly filled the Great Hall now. To his right, Rebecca was twirling Greg across the floor – it was obvious who was leading and John snorted because it definitely wasn't Greg. The other Gryffindor looked like he had fun, though, so it couldn't be that bad and besides, Rebecca was a skilled dancer so Greg had nothing to worry about.

Between the twirling pair of Yves and his girlfriend, who moved very gracefully, John spotted Zack and Alec soon enough, and then Mike and Molly entered shortly after.

The Keeper realized that it was probably more than a bit rude to ignore his partner like that, but Sarah seemed content with all the attention on them for a moment and that left John to look around for… well, for the pair everyone was awaiting, basically.

And then the crowd in front of the door parted a bit, as if to make room for the newcomers, and Irene strut in, confident and smiling, with Sherlock by her side. The genius didn't exactly smile, although he did look a bit amused (and also annoyed with all the gaping people) to John's familiar eyes. Now that John had time to actually look at his best friend, he noticed the white flower at Sherlock's chest, to match Irene's flawless dress, and the crisp white dress shirt that matched her dress, too. They almost looked like bride and groom and they definitely stole the show from the three champions.

The first waltz was over soon enough and changed into an orchestra version of a more familiar tune.

_... All I wanted was a sweet distraction for an hour or two.  
Had no intention to do the things we've done..._

As practiced before, the champions now stepped aside, leaving the second dance of the evening to all the guests and almost immediately, some teachers went to the dance floor, Professor McGonagall dancing with Professor Slughorn and Herr Maier with Madame Maxime.

From his position at the side of the dance floor, John kept his eyes steadily on Sherlock.

_... Funny how it always goes with love, when you don't look, you find.  
But then we're two of a kind, we move as one... _

The genius seemed to argue with Irene about something, but then he rolled his eyes, moving his head around in an exasperated motion and John could've sworn that, for one moment, Sherlock's eyes rested on him, before the Slytherin abruptly swept Irene into his arms and, just as the chorus of the song began, they entered the dance floor, moving effortlessly and gracefully through the mass of dancing people.

_... We're an all time high,  
We'll change all that's gone before.  
Doing so much more than falling in love... _

"They are really good together," Rebecca said from somewhere next to John, approval in her voice, and John had to admit she was right – Sherlock and Irene had a natural grace to them no-one else in the room had and although John hated to admit it, they made a wonderful couple.

_... On an all time high,  
We'll take on the world and wait.  
So hold on tight, let the flight begin..._

In the middle of the dance floor, people now made room for Sherlock and Irene and for the rest of the song, they had the undivided attention of almost everyone in the room.

When the last notes faded away, they left the floor and Sarah asked John to dance again, to which he agreed although he'd rather gone and found Sherlock to talk to him and ask him when he'd decided to go and why he hadn't told anyone.

Sarah was his date, though, and he didn't want to be mean (also, he still had the whole evening and Sherlock would show up sooner or later anyways) and so he excused himself from his group of friends and led Sarah away again.

X

The later the evening got, the funnier it got and Greg, John and the others had the time of their lives. The music was great, and so was the food and since they were a really big group, everyone constantly talked with each other and they had loads of fun. Even the whole dancing was not so bad after a while (and two or three glasses of spiked punch). Apparently wizard balls weren't that different from Muggle festivities after all.

The only thing that was still missing at half past 10 was Sherlock. John had seen him and Irene from time to time, dancing, or even chatting at one of the smaller tables reserved for couples who wanted some privacy and never before had John seen a look like that on Sherlock's face.

The genius' eyes were beaming when he looked at Irene, he listened intently to what she was saying, and at some point he even laughed and gestured animatedly.

Jealousy raged within John, a feeling that was altogether new to him, but not when it came to Sherlock, and he closed his hand to a fist trying to get rid of it. As much as he wanted himself to be the person Sherlock talked to, danced with or… liked, it wasn't going to happen. But still, seeing Sherlock with Irene just made John feel worse.

He was still glancing over at Sherlock's table from time to time when a tall blonde boy from Slytherin stepped up to Irene. When John was able to look the next time, Irene was just getting up, obviously to follow the new boy, and Sherlock was gone.

With a sudden rush of energy, John got up, feeling that this was his chance to go and find Sherlock. However, he'd gotten up too fast and hit his knee, cursing in pain and simultaneously attracting the attention of everyone at the table.

"Uhm I'm just going to find-"

He thought he'd seen familiar curls somewhere in the crowd and turned swiftly, hitting his knee again. "Christ – I'm just going to look for Sherlock-"

Now he was sure he'd seen the younger boy in the crowd and without wasting more time, he tried to push his way through the crowd, completely missing the somewhat sad look Sarah sent after him or the smirk from Greg.

A lot of the people on the dance floor moved away when a slower song started, and there were mostly couples now who went for another round of dancing, but in the semi-darkness of the Hall - the torches were dimmed to create atmosphere - John couldn't really see anything and blindly moved around for Sherlock.

_... Heart beats fast  
Colours and promises  
How to be brave  
How can I love when I'm afraid  
To fall..._

And suddenly Sherlock was right in his personal space, lean body pressed up against him and head bent lightly to be able to whisper in John's ear. "Give me your hand, quickly. And don't struggle. I'll lead."

John was too shocked to say anything. Sherlock was incredibly close and the Gryffindor could feel the soft, glossy curls tickle his cheek lightly since Sherlock's head was still bent down to his ear. The Slytherin smelled wonderful, just a dash of cologne and a scent that was uniquely Sherlock and that dazed John's senses. His heart beat frantically in his chest at Sherlock's closeness and he couldn't even process what Sherlock had told him before the genius' hand slipped into his and one arm sneaked around his waist, pulling him even closer.

Finally realizing what Sherlock was about to do, John's eyes widened and he locked eyes with Sherlock who seemed impressively calm and collected, his light eyes firmly resting on John's face and something that could grow into a smile was tugging at the corners of his lips.

_... But watching you stand alone  
All of my doubt  
suddenly goes away somehow... _

He started to move them a bit, just swaying to the slow rhythm of the music for another moment and John was overly aware of everyone's of his friends' eyes on the two of them. Sarah was probably very angry and everyone else very confused, but right now, that didn't matter because he was dancing with Sherlock and had yet to decide whether he was having a panic attack or not.

_... One step closer..._

"Calm down and waltz!" Sherlock whispered, of course able to read John's turmoil on his face and John realized that the music was picking up pace now – and then he was being guided backwards, held in a firm grip as Sherlock started a perfect Viennese Waltz, leading them right into the heart of the dancing crowd as the chorus of the song started.

… _I have died everyday  
waiting for you  
Darling, don't be afraid  
I have loved you for a  
Thousand years  
I'll love you for a thousand more..._

X

Sherlock knew he had to follow Irene through the crowd, had to find out where Sebastian Moran was leading her to, but now that he had John by his side – literally, holding the Keeper in his arms – he couldn't help but feel the kissing feeling again. He felt like his body was on fire, and from the way his cheeks felt, he was sure they were flushed quite a bit, indicating his attraction for everyone to see.

But the most wonderful and also confusing part was that John looked exactly the same.

Of course Sherlock didn't do double takes, but for a split-second, he willed his mind to a pause and then looked at John again – but yes, the signs were still there and in the maddening rush of colours and scents around them, and through the blur of the music, John's familiar face with the strong, blue eyes were the only constant.

They still waltzed, Sherlock had internalized the steps ages ago and his body was simply moving in a certain pattern, and his mind was allowed to roam freely. He knew it was selfish, and that John would start asking questions any second now, but right now, he wanted John for himself – not having to watch him twirl Sarah, or laugh with Sarah or hold Sarah. One tiny, precious moment, one chorus of the song where they could just be John and Sherlock.

And they were.

For only 20 seconds, they were one, not speaking, simply gazing, and dancing.

And then the music got slower again, and Sherlock, too, slowed down, bringing them in a swaying position, although he slowly, but steadily made his way through the crowd.

"We're going after Irene – she's left with Sebastian Moran and I think they might have something to do with Moriarty," he whispered into John's ear and he thought he saw John's face fall for a moment before the same soft gaze as before was back.

"But why are we dancing?"

"To hide in the crowd, obviously. It's the most inconspicuous way of moving around in here," Sherlock explained, astonished that he didn't even feel bothered too much by John's lack of understanding.

To his surprise, John chuckled and rested his forehead against his chest for a small moment before looking up, a playful glint in his eyes. "Two guys dancing is not exactly low-key, you know? Especially if one of them is Sherlock Holmes."

"Who would I be dancing with if not you, though?" Sherlock asked, voice low, and John's breath got caught. He stopped their motion, bringing them to a halt rather abruptly, but Sherlock's words still sounded through his brain and made it hard to think straight. He'd rarely heard Sherlock sound that sincere and open and, following his instincts, John carefully wriggled his hand free from Sherlock's and brought it up to the genius' face.

At the skin contact, Sherlock's eyes shot up and for a moment, John saw insecurity, but then it was gone and Sherlock swallowed before moving his head towards John an inch. Trying to be reassuring, John laid everything into his eyes, trusting Sherlock to read it before he leaned in, too.

They were surrounded by a crowd of people, in the middle of the Yule Ball and they were about to kiss – but suddenly Sherlock's eyes flickered up, widened, and then he pushed past John, yanking the disturbed boy along by one hand.

"They're getting away!" he hissed, and ran out of the Hall, John following closely (really, he had no choice, the Slytherin's grip allowed nothing else but to follow). They passed a small set of stairs and one corner before Sherlock stopped in his tracks, John collided straight with his back and then Sherlock yanked him around once more, pressing him to the marble wall to their left.

Although John wanted to protest – and was still bedazzled from the tension of their almost kiss – he knew better than to speak up now and he only raised one eyebrow at Sherlock, trying to get his breathing back under control. Sherlock peeked around the corner and then wriggled one finger, indicating for John to follow him a few steps further down the corridor.

They were now hiding behind a pillar and were able to hear Irene talk, but they couldn't see Irene or the person she was talking to.

_... And all along I believed  
I would find you  
Time has brought  
Your heart to me_

_I will love you..._

In the Great Hall, the song faded to an end, but neither of the boys cared now, both intent on hearing what Irene was saying or finding out whom she was talking to, but aside from 'yes' and 'no', she didn't contribute much to the conversation and her conversational partner's voice was tuned out by the noise coming from the Great Hall.

"It's pointless," Sherlock said after a moment and leaned back, ruffling his hair in annoyance. "We might as well go back so she won't get suspicious. Although I'm fairly sure she's talking to Moriarty right now and that she knows I know."

"You know she has something to do with Moriarty? And you're still dancing with her?!" John hissed, hurrying after his friend who was already skipping down the stairs to the Great Hall again.

"If I can find out what Moriarty wants, we can meet him on our conditions rather than waiting for him to show up or do something that might be surprising," Sherlock explained matter-of-factly. "Besides, Irene is fascinating."

They'd reached the doors to the Great Hall again, but John now yanked Sherlock around, fixing him with hard eyes. "She's fascinating? Sherlock, this isn't some sort of game! Moriarty's dangerous and so is Irene Adler!"

"You're wrong. This is a game, and games exist to be played," the Slytherin replied easily.

"Oh for God's sake – I just don't want you to get hurt, do you understand?!" John blurted out and pulled Sherlock closer, so close their noses were almost touching. "What am I supposed to do if you get yourself killed?"

Sherlock blinked. "You- uhm, you don't need to worry about that-"

"Of course I do because that's what you do! You run around and then you get- you get bitten by werewolves or start drugging yourself and you don't think for one moment about what that does to me, about how it would be for me to lose you! Because you're all I have fucking left, Sherlock!"

And to this sentence, with the two boys standing incredibly close to each other, John holding onto Sherlock in a firm grip, Sarah appeared. The heads of the boys whipped around at her almost silent 'Oh' and then she turned on the spot and left, leaving behind a terrified John.

"I have to go talk to her-" the Gryffindor finally said, following the sad-looking girl with his eyes.

"Of course."

John did a double-take at how flat Sherlock's voice sounded, but when he turned to look at his best friend, Sherlock had already broken away from his grip and was making his way through the crowd, obviously heading for his and Irene's table.

With a sigh, John asked himself for the umpteenth time when his life had become the complicated mess it was right now and then followed Sarah.

X

Sherlock did his best to ignore all the emotions that John had triggered in him (brilliant stupid John who could turn Sherlock's whole mind upside down with just a few words and looks) and due to his over the years perfected composure, he looked completely normal when Irene popped back into her seat about five or ten minutes later.

"Did you miss me?" she asked, smirking lightly but he wasn't in the mood for playing anymore.

"Does Moran work for Moriarty, too?"

"Ah-ah, that's not how we play the game," Irene immediately chastised him, but then narrowed her eyes. "You're not interested in playing anymore right now… that's too bad…" she actually looked sad. "Well, maybe I'll leave you to it, then? I've still got someone- I mean, something-" she winked, "else to do."

She emptied her glass of wine, and then moved to get up, but Sherlock's hand shot over the table and hold her back at her wrist. She raised an eyebrow at the unusual move, but stayed where she was when Sherlock leaned closer.

"Jim Moriarty is a dangerous man. You're named after one of the Horae – 'Eirene', the personification of wealth and peace. And while we both agree that peace is dull, you might want learn to live with it rather than having Moriarty on your case," Sherlock told her calmly

"Love, I know what I'm doing," the woman instantly replied, soft smile playing around her lips. "It's you who should be worried. Jim wants you to himself, and he's going to get you eventually."

"I don't think so."

Irene only laughed and kissed him on the cheek. "We'll see. I hope you're right, though. Losing you would be a shame." She focused on something behind Sherlock for a moment and then gave him one last serious look. "There's your boyfriend. You should keep him around… Anyways, it's been a delightful evening, don't you think? We should do this again. Or you know, just _do it_."

She grinned and then, with dramatically twirling dress, she disappeared into the crowd, no doubt to catch some prey for the night.

Sherlock looked after her for a moment and steeled himself when he heard John's familiar footsteps, the ones he could distinguish even over the sound of music and a crowd of more-or-less-inebriated Hogwarts students, come to a halt.

The fact that the Gryffindor didn't speak up told Sherlock that whatever John wanted to say was something that didn't come easy to him and Sherlock allowed himself to wonder for a moment if he should just tell John that he wanted to kiss him, and own him.

Because John was his, and Sherlock knew this was him being possessive – but his addictive personality had long ago found his new fix and that fix happened to be a blond Gryffindor. However, in his opinion, Sherlock had done enough, he'd given John chances to take and the other boy had missed the opportunities – _yes, because you chased after Irene,_ his brain provided and although his mind was obviously correct, Sherlock didn't exactly want to hear that.

So he decided that no, he wouldn't do anything about their situation, he would listen to John tell him everything was fine with Sarah, he would fill him in about Irene's warning of sorts (or maybe he wouldn't, depending on how sappy John and Sarah's reunion story would be) and then he would leave this mindless gathering and maybe try to find out how Irene had managed to contact Moriarty (_possibly Floo Network, Head-Only-Transport most likely – Irene had smelled faintly of smoke)_.

He then turned around, face careful lay out, bare of any sign of emotion, and he saw John startling the slightest bit. Instead of an apology followed by a Sarah-explanation, though, John looked him straight in the eyes and asked: "Can we go outside for a moment? I mean, you don't like it in here anyway and… I think some fresh air would be nice. I want to talk to you."

Sherlock hid his surprise well and, shrugging, followed John. They slowly made their way through the crowd (a lot of them started to whisper, remembering the two of them dancing earlier) and finally, they were in the Entrance Hall. However, John didn't stop and walked all the way outside, until they were standing under the night sky. It was freezing, but at least it didn't snow and there was no wind. The grounds looked beautiful covered in a layer of snow, with the moonlight painting everything silver.

X

John did his best not to stare at Sherlock for too long, but the way his pale eyes shone bright in the moonlight was very distracting and in the semi-darkness, he looked even more miraculous than usual. The Gryffindor realized that Sherlock was staring at him inquisitive and remembering why he'd asked him to talk, he took a deep breath.

"I talked to Sarah."

Sherlock turned to stare off into the darkness immediately, seemingly not even listening to John, but John knew he had to pull through with it now, so he continued.

"She was pretty upset because I ran off with you again-" there was no need to even mention the multiple times over the years when Sherlock had called and John, although grudgingly, had come, "and she said that I had to chose between 'my boyfriend' and her, so I told her I wasn't gay-"

Sherlock snorted. "A statement you made sure to express quite often."

"Will you shut up for just one moment?!" John told him, and for the first time, Sherlock turned his head, intrigued by the forcefulness and emotion suddenly displayed in his best friend's voice.

"I told her I wasn't gay but that I... that I like you." John grimaced at his own choice of words and although the world suddenly became blurred in Sherlock's perception when he heard those words and the part of his mind reserved for John started something he could only describe as wishful hoping, the genius _clearly_ heard the words John added after a moment. "I mean, I really _like_ you."

And because Sherlock didn't know what else to say, he said: "It's a wonder you _ever _managed to enter a relationship if you are this articulate."

"Oh you git, you know exactly what I mean, don't you?" John muttered, clearly torn between annoyance and relief because he finally had Sherlock's attention and the fact that the Slytherin was hiding behind sarcasm told John the other boy wasn't sure how to express himself in another way. "You're a bloody genius, you read people – so read me."

John smiled softly now, standing calmly in front of his best friend, eyes right on Sherlock's.

He almost shivered at the familiar flick when the Slytherin took him in, read every small expression on his face, his posture, his breathing rate, the dilation of his eyes – and then two slender fingers inched up his sleeve a bit, feeling his pulse. His pulse that was obviously running amok at the moment.

"You're attracted to me," Sherlock finally said, voice sounding really strange. Almost... astonished.

"Yup," John answered, continuing to smile when Sherlock looked at him in wonder.

"You've been for a while, then," the Slytherin continued, no doubt replaying all important incidents that he now could analyse under the prospective of John being attracted to him in his head.

"Took me a while to figure it out," the Gryffindor admitted, rubbing his neck. He knew he was blushing. "I'm not a genius, after all."

"Well, there's only room for one genius in a relationship," Sherlock replied and his unsure look belied his light tone. John still couldn't believe it, though.

"Is this what you want, then? A relationship?"

Sherlock cocked his head the slightest bit. "I assume that's what you want."

John almost face-palmed, but he knew Sherlock had no idea how to handle this situation and he was doing admirably so up until now. A little, overexcited John in John's head already jumped up and down at the prospect of... well, being in a relationship with Sherlock, but of course it wasn't going to be that easy.

"It's not just about what I want – how do you feel? What do you want?"

There. It was out. The big question.

John's heart hammered against his chest – he'd given Sherlock the power to completely crush and shatter him. Everyone else would've shaken their heads, called John and idiot for doing so, and would've left. But John trusted Sherlock, with his life and, as astonishing as this was, with his heart.

Sherlock was equally astonished that John appeared so vulnerable. John was always strong, always so sure of everything, and now he'd laid himself bare for Sherlock. What gave him the right to put the genius under such pressure?! John obviously tried his best to reassure Sherlock, to help him open up without having to fear of hurting John, but John's intentions were contradicted by his body language that screamed 'Here's my heart, please don't crush it' – and if that wasn't pressure, then what else? How was he, Sherlock, supposed to react?!

It took the genius 32 long, incredibly long seconds to reach the conclusion that he wouldn't be able to solve this with words and another 8 seconds to figure out what he could do to convey what he was _feeling_ for John.

And so he reached out, closed his wrist around John's hand again _(thrumming pulse under his fingers)_ and yanked _(next time, be more careful – oh hopefully there will be a next time)_ the Gryffindor close before pressing his lips firmly against John's.

It took John only seconds to respond, and Sherlock seconds to panic because he realized he had no idea what he was supposed to do, but apparently this was something you knew by instinct and after these initial awkward seconds, kissing was wonderful.

They broke apart shortly, John flushed quite a bit, pulse a thunderstorm under Sherlock's fingers, and Sherlock flushed even more. "I wanted to do this since the day we walked in on my family," he breathed and John grinned. "I'm never going to let you stop again."

"That's physically imposi-_unf,_" Sherlock tried to reply, but John was suddenly flush against him, one hand threaded in Sherlock's curls, and silence him with a kiss and Sherlock decided not to complain.

When Greg came looking for them at some point and found them snogging in the middle of the snow he was too shocked to say something, backed away slowly and returned to the Great Hall, where he sat down, white as a sheet. The others didn't get out of him what he'd seen and John outside hadn't even noticed him. Sherlock, of course, had, but he was busy not only fighting hypothermia, but also kissing John Watson, and so it didn't matter at all. Nothing did, nothing but John.

* * *

_**DISCLAIMER:** The songs (All Time High, A Thousand Years) belong to their respective artists, Sherlock and the rest of the gang to ACD/the BBC and Hogwarts'n'stuff to JKR._


	18. Sixth Year - Triwiz Tournament Part II

_This needs a cover photo! Any of you talented people willing to draw? Or suggest something existing? I'd love to hear your suggestions._

* * *

After snogging in the snow for about half an hour, both boys realized that they were probably going to freeze to death if they didn't head back in and Sherlock, who had no intention of going back to the dance, suggested he walked John up to the Gryffindor common room – it was quite late already and the Yule Ball was officially ending in about 20 minutes anyway, so that made sense and John was quite happy to stroll through the castle by Sherlock's side.

Neither of them talked much, but they did send each other looks whenever their fingers brushed in between them. John simply smiled when that happened while Sherlock's eyes ever so often shot down and then up in wonder again.

At some point, Sherlock carefully reached out and threaded his fingers through John's, walking hand in hand with him for a while until they simultaneously looked at each other and snorted in laughter, ending up with Sherlock against a pillar while John kissed him fiercely between laughter.

"That's ridiculous if we're not being chased!" Sherlock finally managed, gesturing towards their still joined hands. "Is that what couples do?"

"Most of them, yes," John agreed, finding the unusual gesture just as amusing as his – best friend? Not anymore. Boyfriend? Lover? He cringed inwardly and decided to keep 'find a term for what they were' in the back of his head. They started walking again and he added: "We don't have to if you don't like it, though."

"Maybe we can do it bi-weekly," Sherlock mused, eyes trained on their hands.

"Whatever floats your boat."

"Did you really just tell me I should do whatever 'floats my boat'?"

John pulled a face. "Did you just repeat my words? Because I know someone who finds repetition dull."

"I'm putting slight inebriation and hormones down to your silliness."

The Gryffindor couldn't help but grin at Sherlock's almost offended look and, following an impulse quickly reached out and pinched his cheek. "It's just because I've got a new boyfriend!"

"I might change my mind about that," Sherlock threatened, although it was clear he didn't mean it. From the way he was silent for a while, though, John realized he was thinking about something and waited patiently until the genius would come around to speak his thoughts out loud.

"So we are boyfriends now."

"Technically, yes. I mean, I told you how I feel about you and we kissed, so that's generally stuff couples do."

"'Boyfriends' sounds ordinary, though," Sherlock decided. "I don't think its fitting."

"You know, we don't have to label us," John tried. "We don't even have to tell people we're together if you don't want to."

Sherlock cocked his head. "But you want to."

John shrugged. "Sherlock, there really isn't much to tell. Do you think things will be different between us? I'm still going to run after you and save your butt and make the Wolfsbane Potion and all that." He stopped them again, but this time Sherlock was faster and sealed their lips together hungrily. Between gasps, John managed: "There'll be a lot more kissing, though."

Sometime later, they continued their way, lips swollen and cheeks flushed, and hands still dangling between them, linked lightly. That way, they reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, and before John left, Sherlock told him: "I'd rather not announce this… change in our relationship. I don't want to hide, but I think it would be beneficial if word wouldn't get around. Moriarty-"

"I understand," John reassured him, smiling warmly. "I'll see you in the morning, yeah?"

"Of course."

And with that, Sherlock left. They didn't kiss goodnight – this wasn't a sappy love film after all – but John did sigh dreamily (albeit very quietly) after the Slytherin disappeared around the corner before telling the Fat Lady the password and making his way up to his bed. This night's sleep was the best he got in a long time.

X

The next day, although John felt like bursting from joy and excitement, was incredibly ordinary. No one asked him about Sherlock, and he got called away early in the morning for a meeting with the other Prefects (which he half-slept through because it was bloody early considering there had been the Yule Ball the night before PLUS it was Christmas Day) but apparently there'd been some incidents with younger students regarding the Ball that needed to be taken care off. After that, McGonagall called him and after wishing him Merry Christmas, he was led to a room with the other two champions waiting for him.

"Welcome on this Christmas Day to the meeting for the Second Task. We do apologize for the timing, but there has been a slight change in the timetable which required an immediate announcement."

McGonagall looked paused and John looked around sleepily. Rebecca didn't look much better, hair sticking up at weird angles and she was barely able to stifle yawns, and Yves looked really pale this morning, with dark spots on his neck that looked very much like hickeys – John noticed with a tired grin that he'd obviously gotten lucky last night.

"Originally, the Second Task was supposed to take place in the first week of March, but due to the Apparition lessons and test this year, we have to bring the second task forward quite a bit. It will now take place in the third week of January-"

That did wake up the three champions effectively and almost immediately, they exchanged looks and whispers, discussing the proximity of the next task and if that was good or bad.

"If I may have your attention again? Thank you. Now, we do realize this is at short notice, but we did change the rules slightly to make amends for that. You will be allowed to take one person of your choosing with you, providing they're over the age of 16."

You didn't have to be a genius to know of whom John immediately thought at this announcement and the smile that spread on his face was mirrored by Rebecca and Yves, who apparently already knew whom they were going to chose, too.

"It is important that you don't underestimate this Task. There has been a lot of discussion about it, but the Ministry thought it was suitable. You are going to spend one night in the Forbidden Forest, where you will have to find the Statue of a Griffin and re-attach the wing you won in the First Task. In case of Miss Schmidt, you will just have to find the statue, since you have been punished with loss of points for not retrieving the Wing in the First Task already."

"But this Forest – don't the Hogwarts students know it already? He-" Yves pointed at John, "will have an advantage, no?"

"Entering the Forest is not allowed for students here, so no, Mr. Watson will not have any form of advantage over you. If you are worried, Mr. Gabin, keep in mind that you are also allowed to chose a companion from amongst the Hogwarts students if you like."

That seemed to satisfy the French and John tried everything to keep a straight face. Obviously, Professor McGonagall was right, no Hogwarts student was allowed into the Forest, so technically the Task would've been very fair, but… well, considering he and Sherlock regularly frequented the woods, ever since their First Year, maybe John did have a slight advantage.

Of course he didn't say so, though, and when no-one had anything else to add, McGonagall allowed them to leave.

Because of all that, John only came back to the Gryffindor common around noon and had up until then successfully avoided any conversation regarding him and Sarah and Sherlock.

He found Greg and the rest of his dorm slouched on the armchairs in front of the fireplace with piles of presents next to them. Of course they all wanted to know where he'd been and after quickly filling them in on the task, they became decidedly more animated, already speculating about what was going to await John in the Forrest.

About half an hour into the discussion, they heard the Fat Lady swing aside and shortly after Sherlock casually strolled into the common room. He and John had convinced the Fat Lady ages ago that if the Slytherin could figure out the password by himself, he would be allowed in, seeing as he did spent more time in the Gryffindor common room than in his own anyways, and now he unceremoniously flopped down into a chair next to John's, looking completely at ease.

Seeing the Slytherin that close again brought back all the memories of last night in Dolby surround sound and HD, so to speak (not that John _hadn't_ constantly thought about it!) and now all he could do was curl up on his chair tighter to prevent himself from leaning over and do something. Like kissing. Yes, kissing would be good.

Sherlock was obviously able to read his thoughts, and John wondered if he was the only one who saw the small grin on the genius' face. Sherlock then raised one eyebrow, and John interpreted that as 'later', which he immediately accepted.

Greg sent them both a look that John didn't see and Sherlock noted with indifference, but the other Gryffindor didn't speak up and so Zack filled Sherlock in on the Second Task, before Greg asked: "So, John, you're taking Sherlock, right?"

John knew Greg wasn't asking because he was jealous or wanted to come or anything, but there was something strange about how his dorm mate looked. However, he decided to ask Sherlock about that later and simply nodded. "Yeah. I mean, I would ask him first but-"

"-but that's completely unnecessary," Sherlock ended the sentence for him. Everyone could hear the silent 'duh!'.

After that was cleared up, the boys went back to speculating about what exactly was luring between the trees of the Forest, while Sherlock and John stayed noticeable silent – they couldn't very well tell them about the Acromantula colony or the giant three-headed dog now, could they? Besides, John found it harder and harder to keep calm in his armchair because the longer the afternoon got, the more kissable Sherlock looked.

Was that how it was going to be from now on? That he was barely able to keep his hands off his very good-looking, genius boyfriend-for-the-lack-of-a-better-word? The boyfriend that had obviously aimed to dress to drive John mad because the purple shirt he was wearing looked really tight over his chest and his long fingers thrummed on the arm-rest of his chair relentlessly while he was thinking and talking.

"John, are you coming?!"

The Gryffindor startled from his hypnotization at Sherlock's words and he found his friend's gaze resting on him intently.

"I'm sorry, I was in thoughts – what did you say?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes but then repeated: "We should go through your trunk, I'm sure there are some things in there that might be helpful with the Second Task. You've only got a bit more than three weeks to prepare."

"I-uhm, yes. Yes, let's go." John got up fast, maybe too fast to be unsuspicious, and called over his shoulder "See you later," before making his way up to the boy's dorm with Sherlock, concentrating very hard on not running because that would've ruined all of it. However, as soon as they were safe inside the room with the five beds, he turned to Sherlock, but the Slytherin was already up in his personal space and guided him backwards until they toppled on John's bed, lips already mashed together.

John thought that if that really was how it was going to be from now on, he wouldn't complain.

X

Not much changed in the relationship of John and Sherlock. They still were inseparable, they still spent hours in the dungeons, analyzing mold, plants, the occasional dead animal and now they also practiced charms and spells that would come in handy in the Forest.

However, it would happen that Sherlock suddenly looked up from a particularly gruesomely killed animal (Auriga, now almost the size of a Labrador retriever, seemed to be determined to make things interesting for her owner), pushed the safety goggles up his head and tackled John to the next wall, because like everything he did, he didn't do things half-way and he was rough and energetic most of the time, although he always made sure to be gentle enough not to hurt John.

On other occasions, John wound his arms around the genius and started teasing him until the tools and instruments in Sherlock's hands clattered down and he pulled John close.

The library, where they had spent a lot of time over the years doing homework or sneaking into the Forbidden Section was still important to them, but while they had stuck their heads together behind a book in the First Year, too, that same book was now a perfect shield to snog behind.

Sherlock, although never showing or saying it, was just happy that his work wasn't interrupted or suffered under the aspect of 'having a relationship' while John smiled to himself because nothing was different between them and yet everything was better.

X

Greg was seriously considering moving to Alaska. Or any place that didn't held any doors in great distance he could open and therefore walk in on John and Sherlock tongue-wrestling.

Of course he hadn't talked to anyone about what he'd witnessed on Christmas Eve because he didn't gossip and it was John's and Sherlock's private business but they fucking made it everyone's business when they did it everywhere Greg went.

As if they were planning on creating as many awkward encounters as possible. Quite likely, if you were Sherlock Holmes.

Although, admittedly, they didn't really notice him. No, he just wanted to get a book from the library and saw them snogging in a quiet corner, hiding more or less effectively behind a book. Or he wanted to retrieve the quill he'd left in the Potions classroom and witnessed how John manhandled Sherlock onto the next table or against the wall or- Greg didn't stay to find out, obviously.

He was fully supportive of them (actually, once it would become public, he'd get 4 galleons from each Mike and Zack because they'd bet against him) but there was only so much secret making out he could walk in on without having a heart attack. Also, he was a bit hurt that John hadn't told him. They were best mates after all. And Sherlock wasn't better.

So when, on the evening before the second task, he saw John and Sherlock exiting a room on the Seventh Floor Greg couldn't even remember existed (did that door just disappear into thin air?!), he didn't hesitate long and called out: "Can I at least expect a wedding invitation or will I just find out when one of you ends hospitalized and they ask for significant others?"

Sherlock didn't even flinch and simply finished straightening down his shirt while John – to Greg's satisfaction – almost had a heart attack and flushed bright red. Greg kept his gaze on him, taking in the bite marks that were poorly hidden on his neck, the loose tie and the wrinkled shirt and tried to hide his amusement, instead going for a death glare for a few more seconds.

"I-uhm, we- we didn't- I mean, we are-" John stammered, not quite sure how to tackle the subject, but when Greg finally stopped glaring, deciding that his mate had suffered enough, John, too, relaxed a bit. He tried again. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you but… we figured with everything going on we didn't need the attention, you know?"

"Well, then maybe try going at it in less public places," Greg advised, trying to rid his mind of the unwanted memories popping up. He shuddered. It wasn't because they were two guys but really, there were only a short number of times one could walk in on his friends making out without having seen way too much.

"What-"

"Oh, he walked in on us at the Yule Ball, and repeatedly after that incident," Sherlock told John with a shrug, and both Greg and John flushed bright red at the nonchalance the Slytherin displayed.

"You knew about that?!" they asked almost simultaneously and Sherlock granted them a goddamn smirk before turning and striding down the hallway, leaving behind two shocked Gryffindors.

"He's-"

"Yes."

"A bloody-"

"Absolutely."

"And you're snogging him."

A groan. "I know."

They fell silent for a while. Then, Greg took a deep breath. "Butterbeer and you tell me how being in a relationship with Sherlock works? And then more Butterbeer so this stops being awkward?"

John grinned thankfully. "God yes."

Together, they made their way back to the common room and three hours later, when not only Greg, but also the rest of the dorm was being filled in on the change in John's and Sherlock's relationship – because he thought that was only right to do – they sat together in their bedroom, sprawled out on two beds and absolutely nothing had changed. Strangely enough, Greg got eight galleons and John quirked an eyebrow, but didn't ask, and they were as supportive as ever, not making a scene out of it besides the expected "Why didn't you tell us earlier I thought we were your friends" bit.

It was one of these nights when John once again realized that Gryffindor House was truly his family and no matter whom he dated, how good or bad he played Quidditch or how well he did at the Second Task tomorrow, they would always be there to support him – because that's what family was supposed to do.

X

In the early afternoon of the 20th of January, an exceptional cold day but at least without snowfall, the three champions were led to the edge of the Forbidden Forest and into a tent, where once again their wands were checked and then they had to announce their companions for the task.

Professor McGonagall wasn't the least bit surprised when Sherlock sauntered into the tent and stood next to John, an excited look on his face at the prospect of the great adventure lying ahead of them.

"Why am I not surprised?" she noted, but looked almost amused. Obviously that was hard to tell over her always serious expression, but John had become quite adapt in reading Sherlock's face and that helped with his Headmistress.

Rebecca chose to tackle the task with her sister and while they bickered a bit while they all had to wait for Yves partner to show up, it was clear that they did form a good team.

"He's probably going to choose his girlfriend anyway," Rebecca whispered and John nodded. The same thought had crossed him already and he almost counted on the petite blonde from the Yule Ball to come in, but when the tent doors were lifted one last time his jaw almost hit the ground.

Wearing clothes that almost covered all of her body for once and hair tied back into a ponytail, Irene Adler walked in, with swaying hips and a smirk on her face.

Sherlock next to John obviously didn't gape, but from the way his posture stiffened slightly, John knew he was surprised, too.

"Miss Adler, you're here to assist Mr. Gabin in this task?" Professor McGonagall asked, looking over the edge of her glasses.

"That's right."

The Headmistress of Hogwarts fixed her for a bit longer before she nodded and spoke up, directing her words at everyone in the room. "As the champions already know, the Second Task takes place in the Forbidden Forest. You are to attach the Griffin Wing from the First Task at a statue hidden somewhere in the Forest, but only after you've spent one night successfully in there. All of you will be marked with a spell similar to the Trace, which you know is used by the Ministry to keep an eye on underage wizards. That way, we will be able to monitor your every step and the students can follow your progress from the school. Should you get into any trouble, we will either come to your aid by ourselves or you can send out red sparks. The bags over there contain everything you will need to spend the night in the Forest. If there aren't any more questions, you will be allowed into the Forest pair by pair soon, starting with Mr. Gabin."

The champions nodded in understanding and John picked up a small bag that contained a tent, from the looks of it, and some food. Good, at least they weren't going to be starved for the night, since you couldn't actually conjure up food with magic. He didn't notice Sherlock slipped out of the tent with Irene until he turned and couldn't find his companion anymore.

X

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock inquired, eyes trained on the smirking Ravenclaw.

"Well, poor Yves was dumped by his girlfriend shortly after the Yule Ball and he had no-one to take to this task," she told him, still smiling.

"And that has nothing to do with the fact that you disappeared with him at the end of the Yule Ball, I presume," Sherlock stated.

"Oh Sherlock, are you implying I had something to do with their break-up?"

"We both know it," he told her easily and then stepped a bit closer, entering her personal space – not that she minded. "Whatever you plan to achieve here, it's not going to work out."

"I'm sure it will," she replied, raising her fingers to rest on his cheek lightly. He didn't flinch back. "It's a shame you and John are exclusive…"

"Maybe in another life."

"Yes, maybe." She sighed. "You look down on people who feel, who are sentimental, who let themselves be ruled by emotion, but what are you doing with John? What is he doing with you?"

"It works," was all Sherlock replied, not interested in sharing anything beyond the necessary with Irene. She did work for Moriarty, after all, and any information about John or himself was something the evil genius could use against him.

"But will it still work when John is bleeding out into the frozen ground? Will you be able to think rather than feel?" Her voice was quiet now and although he did her best to keep up her charade, Sherlock could see something in her dark eyes that almost looked like _regret_.

She was warning him. A subtle, barely-there warning, but obviously it was enough for Sherlock. It was stupid from Irene though. Because if Sherlock could read it, Moriarty would be able to tell, too, and with that tiny, almost invisible look, she had signed her sentence of death. Sherlock knew it.

"You shouldn't have." _Warned me. Told me. Come here._

But Irene was careless, and she smirked and kissed him on the cheek. "You're always so tense. Live a little." And with that, she walked back into the tent, leaving him to his thoughts.

_Live a little._ A good advice, coming from a dead woman.

X

John, as the winner of the First Task, entered the Forest with Sherlock as the last of the champions, about half an hour after Yves and Irene had gone in.

They discussed briefly if it would be of any help if John changed into his dogform, but John didn't want to walk next to Sherlock all evening without being able to talk to him (or kiss him, his brain helpfully provided) and so he stayed human. Professor McGonagall had given them basic instructions where to look for the statue and since they had all night, they wandered the Forest calmly, not rushing into things.

Sherlock was quite a bit out of his usual area – usually when they roamed the Forest, he was a werewolf and fit into the darkness effortlessly, but a lanky, pale Slytherin was different to a beast and John was quite amused at how miserable Sherlock looked from time to time. His natural habitat, so to speak, was the dungeons, and he had really looked at home in the nightly London streets, but Sherlock-in-the-nature did look strange.

After about walking for half an hour and easily getting rid of a few Red Caps trying to bludgeon them, they came to a small clearance in the woods, but before they could cross it, a terrifying shriek sounded through the trees. They stopped in their tracks, wands raised in alarm, but then a small flock of Thestrals came galloping onto the clearing and John and Sherlock calmed down a bit.

They knew the intimidating looking creatures weren't dangerous, at least not to the students of Hogwarts, but Sherlock spotted some foals between the grown horses, so he whispered: "We should retreat. I think the parents will be slightly more aggressive than usual to keep the young ones safe."

John wanted to agree, but the closer he looked, the more off something about the flock seemed. The adult Thestrals were agitated and unsettled and kept parading around one of the foals, snapping at its back from time to time, but without actually biting it. The foal also looked kind of sick – as far as a creepy, boney horse foal could look sick – and its thin legs shivered where it was standing.

"Sherlock, do you see something on that foal's back?" John inquired, slowly inching closer and now Sherlock's interest was picked, too. He followed, narrowing his eyes.

"It appears to be some sort of parasite-" the Slytherin mumbled but was interrupted when John yanked him to the side, away from the fangs of an uneasy adult Thestral.

"Maybe we can help them," John whispered, speaking low so as not to disturb the creatures in front of them more. "Your voice is deeper, talk to them and tell them we want to help."

"That's ridiculous, I'm not talking to Thestrals," Sherlock replied sulkily, clearly thinking this was not a good idea.

"You'll calm them down and you know they can understand humans!" John hissed back, fixing his eyes on Sherlock.

The genius made a sound that was suspiciously close to a snarl, but then rolled his eyes and, trying to sound especially calm and soothing (and sending shivers down John's spine), told the Thestrals: "We can help you. We're not trying to harm you. If you let us through, John will look at your foal."

For about two seconds, it looked like the Thestrals either didn't understand or didn't care and wanted to rip John and Sherlock to shreds because they were coming so close, but then, on a shrill shriek from the biggest of the creatures, the others made room and made a lane for John. He carefully approached the foal with slow, deliberate steps and it neighed weakly when the Gryffindor approached.

Over John's shoulder, Sherlock examined the thing on the foal's back with some interest and then announced: "That has to be some cross between flesh-eating slug and leech. Look at the single puncture wound and the way its swelling."

"It's gross, that's what it is," John mumbled, distaste in his voice, and then he raised his wand and produced a small blue flame that stayed at the tip of the wand, much like a lighter. Sensing the warmth, the foal shivered anxiously, but Sherlock steadied it with a hand over its dead eyes (when had he become that good with animals?!) and when John got closer and closer to the leech mutation, it convulsed and suddenly loosened the bite on the Thestral foals back, curling up and dropping to the ground. Within seconds, three adult Thestrals were stomping it to goo.

With one last look, Sherlock and John slowly retreated, keeping an eye on the flock the whole time, but they were too busy smelling the foal that already looked livelier and was happily chewing on the remains of what seemed to be an owl.

"Your compulsive need to make the world better is quite fascinating," Sherlock told John as they were wandering the woods again, and John only shook his head, smiling. "Well, you can deny it as much as you want, but your choice to help people with your abilities makes the world a better place, too. Even if you claim to only do it to stimulate your mind."

To that, Sherlock replied nothing, but the small smile in the corner of his lips let John knew he was at least a bit right. Suddenly, though, the smile was wiped from Sherlock's face and his body tensed up. John's eyes shot up in alarm, too, and he followed his companions look at the crown of a nearby tree.

A crown with a thin, silver web clinging to the branches.

X

"A WHOLE BLOODY FOREST FULL OF MONSTERS AND WE RUN RIGHT INTO THE SPIDERS _AGAIN_!" John called as he forcefully yanked Sherlock away – not a second too late, because where the Slytherin had been seconds before, pincers drilled into the ground as a spider about the size of a pony flung itself down from a tree.

"DUCK!" Sherlock yelled back, not bothering to actually point out the likelihood of that event based on facts and instead firing a Stinging Hex right into the multiple eyes of another spider that reared up threateningly behind John.

Not thinking twice, John then tugged Sherlock along, down the path that had just become free due to the spider crumbling up in agony and both boys concentrated on running now, the light of their wands illuminating flitting shadows to their right and left.

"We're going in the wrong direction," Sherlock suddenly shouted and John nodded grimly, but without stopping. He, too, had realized they were running right into the heart of the colony again when the ground had started to get slightly aslope. There was no turning back, though, since the thrum of eight-legged creatures indicated they were followed closely.

"Maybe we can blow them up again-"

"Too dangerous!"

"But we need to do some-_unf-_"

John was cut off when he hit the ground and his arm twisted when Sherlock, who'd not expected it, kept on running and held the grip on his hand.

The fact that he not only suddenly lost his grip on John's hand, but also the fact that the Gryffindor cried out in pain abruptly stopped Sherlock and he turned, looking like a deer caught in headlights. However, John couldn't really care about that right now because he realized he had only seconds until the spiders would arrive. So instead of thinking of the pain in his arm or the blood he tasted – he'd probably bit his tongue – he took a deep breath and almost instantly, the world slowed down. He had easily time to push his body up, wincing at the pain in his arm, and reach for his wand with his right arm.

Rolling on his back, he whipped his wand over his head, called out "INCENDIO" and watched in grim satisfaction how the flames broke free from the tip, illuminating the glistening black eyes of spiders before they rained on the ground, encircling John and Sherlock and cutting off the way to them effectively.

With a warping sound, time sprung back into its normal pace then, John collapsed on his back and let out a deep groan at the pain still throbbing through his left arm.

Of course, being in the middle of a ring of fire wasn't exactly a safe position, but it was better than being overrun by spiders. Only when Sherlock's voice drifted over the sizzling of the flames, John realized something had gone wrong.

He scrambled to his feet, right hand clutching his left arm and noticed horrified that he had indeed encircled Sherlock and himself in flames, but they were in two separate rings and the licking flames cast deep shadows on Sherlock's panicking face.

John's heart almost stopped at the look in his boyfriend's eyes and Sherlock stood there, one arm reaching out for John over the flames, but too far away to reach him.

"SHERLOCK!"

"I'M COMING OVER!" The genius bellowed back and wiped the panic from his face, replacing it with determined look.

"YOU STAY RIGHT WERE YOU ARE!" John yelled, watching the spiders that circled them – not too close, afraid of the fire, but still close enough to pluck Sherlock out of the air should he try to jump.

John stepped back a bit, to get some space from the heat emitted by the fire and then his ankle nudged against something. The something he'd been tripping over before.

"Oh god…"

He fell to his knees and ignored the pain in his arm when he hastily cleared away snow and dead leaves, revealing more and more of a bare, pale _arm_. Within seconds, he'd freed the person from everything covering her and he gasped when he stared into Irene Adler's blind eyes that were turned upwards, towards the night sky barely visible between the tree tops.

Her skin was unnaturally pale, almost luminescent, and her veins were tinted deep black, running over her body from small double-puncture wounds on every inch of bare skin.

A sudden blow of wind sent shivers down John's spine and when his eyes flickered up from Irene, he noticed in horror that the flames were slowly dying down around him.

"JOHN YOU NEED TO DO SOMETHING. USE THE PATRONUS CHARM!" Sherlock called over the flames and when John's head whipped around to look at his companion, he saw that Sherlock, while obviously caring and worrying about him, had his eyes firmly trained on Irene's body. If John would've had time to analyze Sherlock's look, he'd probably seen the hint of sadness, but also the tightened fists, but he didn't have the time and, following Sherlock's suggestion, concentrated hard before calling "EXPECTO PATRONUM!"

The lion instantly broke free from his wand, roaring loudly in the night, and in its light, the spiders hissed and hastily retreated a few meters.

With the new security provided by the lion, John felt for the young woman's pulse with trembling fingers and his eyes widened when he couldn't find it. Her skin was icy, too, and that's when it really hit him – Irene Adler was dead, lying on the cold ground and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. Of course he didn't hold much sympathy for Irene, but that didn't make the sick feeling in his stomach any better.

"Is she still alive?!" Sherlock called and startled John from his position, frozen next to Irene's body.

"I- no, there's no pulse, I think she's dead."

John didn't realized he was speaking too quietly for Sherlock to hear over the clicking of pincers and the sizzling of the slowly dying flames, and when he finally couldn't bear looking into the lifeless eyes any longer, he closed them softly.

Thoughts were racing through his head – why hadn't they stopped the task when Irene was attacked, or at least when she was killed? They were monitored after all! – and much more, but just when he wanted to get up and turn around, he heard the sound of branches breaking over him and his head shot up in alarm, but it was too late.

X

Sherlock knew Irene was dead the second he saw John digging her free from her icy cover, and something inside him felt as if it broke.

His first instinct was to say that _he'd told her so_, that _he'd told her_ getting involved with Moriarty was dangerous and wouldn't end well, but for once, the fact that he'd been right didn't matter at all.

Sherlock didn't _care_ about most people, and he certainly didn't hold much affection for them, either. There were people that were tolerable enough (Lestrade and, to an extent, Molly) and there was John, who was a category for himself, but other than that, there was only Moriarty. And Irene. Who was almost as smart as he was, but who was easy to manipulate because of her sentiment.

She shouldn't have warned him, because now she was dead.

When the flames started to flicker, he instinctively called out for John to call his Patronus – because if it hurt like that to see Irene dead, what would it feel like to see John like that?

The short panic that had overwhelmed him when they'd been separated was already a good indicator of the things to come should anything happen to John, and then Sherlock's stomach dropped when he realized that even without loving John (was it love? Was this how love felt like? Did he love John? Was he even CAPABLE of loving?), he'd almost gone mad in their Second Year, when the Gryffindor had been poisoned with the Basilisk venom.

And if he had been around for the fatal summer break, he would've seen John almost dying from Moriarty's hitmen's attack, too. Seeing him in St. Mungo's had been bad enough.

John needed to live. Sherlock knew he couldn't lose someone else tonight – or ever, for that matter. He could never, ever lose John.

To will his mind into another direction – one that hopefully would produce a useful, life-saving idea – he asked: "Is she still alive?!", already knowing the answer but also wanting to get John back on track again, because even though he had disliked Irene, his compassion was definitely outweighing everything else right now.

John's response was impossible to understand, but Sherlock figured it was a negation, and then John leaned forward to close Irene's eyes and got up-

And Sherlock saw the threat too late, couldn't do anything anymore and when the spider that fell down from the tree-top it'd been lurking in landed on John with a heavy thump, all colour drained from Sherlock's face.

He immediately fired off two Stunning Spells, but the hard carapace on the spider's back was protecting it. The Lion Patronus still shielded John from the spiders around them, but the fire had completely died down and it was increasingly hard for the creature of light to be everywhere at once.

From under the spider, Sherlock heard a muffled cry and then the animal was being catapulted into the air, revealing a heavily panting John.

Sherlock's eyes scanned him quickly – he was bruised, scratched but there were no bite marks.

"I'm going to extinguish the flames around myself and then we need to run," Sherlock called, and simply ignored John's protest, concentrating on the water coming from his wand at his mumble of "Aguamenti" – he knew that their chances of escaping the rows of spiders were little but John was exposed and he himself caught in a stupid ring of fire, unable to help the most important person in his life.

Where water hit fire, steam broke free and within seconds, Sherlock couldn't see his own hand in front of his face anymore, let alone John. From the sounds of it, the Gryffindor was fighting the spiders, though, and Sherlock willed every single fibre in his body to concentrate even harder so that the magic would work faster.

He jumped through the boiling hot steam just in time to see John whipping his head around, giving him an broken look and then a whole pile of spiders crashed over him like a giant black wave and John's Lion Patronus reared up and leashed out one last time before flickering, like a broken light bulb, and then dissolving into thin air.

The whole world froze.

Surprisingly, Sherlock was still able to think, more clearly than ever and maybe it was the prospect of John dying right now that made his brain sharper and brighter than a diamond.

There were a few things that were absolutely clear: Firstly, they were clearly not monitored right now – Moriarty must've found a way to rid them of the trace momentarily so the staff had no idea where they were and what was happening to them. Secondly, they either didn't know of Irene's death or were being tricked into believing she was still alive – either way, Moriarty was controlling that, too. Thirdly, if the Second Task was being controlled by Moriarty, there was a way out, because just like Sherlock, the other boy liked to play games. And a game could always be won.

Obviously, Moriarty wanted to get rid of John, but Sherlock was smarter, so much smarter and Jim should never have tried to touch _his_ _John._

Sherlock knew he couldn't blow up the spiders, because then John was likely to die, too, and with a dreading feeling he realized he needed the one spell he'd never been able to perform.

Sherlock needed a Patronus, the mightiest, brightest, strongest Patronus that ever was.

And of course there was only one thing to think of.

_"Mum! Here's room for us!" A small, bit chubby boy, light blond hair (it would get darker over the years), blue eyes, pushing open the door of a train compartment open and fixing his eyes on the awkward, silent child with the big eyes and unruly curls._

"_I want to be a pirate." – "That... is... awesome!" Only knowing him for 15 minutes, John had dedicated his whole life to Sherlock, claiming he could be a pirate doctor if Sherlock would get a pirate ship._

_Five years later, John stumbled back into his life again and he said "Not important? We met before, that's like… a sign."_

_Not a week later, he'd said "I'd like us to be friends."_

_Five months later, he'd saved Sherlock's life for the first time._

_A year later, Sherlock saved his._

_Six years later, John kissed him and he kissed John and John told him he was never going to stop._

_Something else made sense now. 'It shows us nothing more or less than the deepest, most desperate desire of our hearts'. The Mirror of Erised had been right all along. All he wanted was John by his side. And the most amazing, incomprehensible, wonderful, impossible thing was that John wanted that too._

Despite the situation, a genuine smile appeared on Sherlock's face and then his voice thundered through the forest as time went back into motion.

"EXPECTO PATRONUM!"

For a moment, Sherlock was blinded by the bright silver light coming from his wand, but then his eyes adjusted and he watched how a silver Lioness _(obviously, what else could it have been? So he had indeed fallen in love with utterly amazing John Watson)_ pounced at the spiders that fled horrified, if that was an expression spiders were capable of.

They fled in drovers, with clicking pincers and thrumming legs and Sherlock rushed over to the crumbled figure on the ground while his Lioness still chased around, growling menacingly at stray creatures.

John was laying on his side, curled up into a tight ball, but when he felt Sherlock's prodding fingers, he slowly relaxed and lifted his head.

His blue eyes looked at Sherlock in wonder and then focused on something behind the Slytherin. Sherlock turned to see the Lioness slowly stalk up to them and suddenly she pounced at them and vanished into thin air mid-air.

"You managed a Patronus." Of course, John meant to say a lot of different things, but that was the first to come to his mind and Sherlock understood all the unsaid things.

"Apparently so."

"What- uhm, what did you think of?"

"Most likely the same thing you thought of."

John managed a grin that was still a bit shaky, but then again he had just been covered beneath hundreds of spiders. "Oh, is that so? Well, what did I think of then?"

Sherlock was grinning now, too, and – God beware – was flirting back. Honest-to-God flirting back. "Something like this." And he leaned down to capture John's lips in a kiss, which was light, yes, but gained meaning by the fact that Sherlock was incredibly glad that John was more or less unharmed and alright. He'd never say so loudly, but he could try to show it to the Gryffindor. And from the way the older boy eagerly responded, bringing up his right hand to Sherlock's neck, the message was clear.

When they were finally breaking apart for air, John mumbled: "You could've asked me if I was alright, you know?"

"I knew you were. Had you been bitten, all that would be left of you was a puddle on the ground, and you can handle a bit of shock," Sherlock dismissed him, although he made sure to hold eye contact, set on reading if John would take this the wrong way.

However, his Gryffindor only shook his head in amusement and fake-grumbled something along the line of "Of course I can handle shock, I'm with you after all," before getting to his feet, wincing when he rolled his arm – the one that had been twisted before – around a bit to get it back to moving smoothly. Sherlock was just getting up, too, when out of nothing, an owl swept down and dropped a piece of parchment on the ground.

The Slytherin quickly picked it up and read it before crumpling it and shoving it into the pocket of his trousers. John hadn't even noticed what had happened and when Sherlock turned, still a sick feeling in his stomach from the message, he understood what was capturing John's attention.

"We should... I don't know, bury her. Or send out sparks," John said calmly, eyes trained on Irene.

"No. Moriarty's controlling this whole task. I'm sure we wouldn't be able to contact any staff members and we don't have the time or the means to bury her." Noticing John's unbelieving look, he added: "I know it's not the decent way to deal with this situation, but trust me – it's the only sensible thing."

For a while, it looked like John was going to protest, but then his mouth turned into a firm line and he nodded sharply. "Alright. Then let's get going. I suppose we still have to finish this task."

Relieved, Sherlock walked past him and squeezed his shoulder once, before using the four-point spell and heading into one direction, sure that John would follow. While walking, his fingers curled around the parchment in his pockets, almost feeling the words seep into his body through the thin material of his trousers.

"_Do you enjoy my game? Because I will burn the heart out of you."_

X

"I know we're right!"

"But there's nothing there!"

"It will show up eventually, I suppose. The task was to spend the night in the Forbidden Forest, so you won't get the chance to complete this task early."

John grudgingly admitted that Sherlock was probably right, but that didn't mean he had to like it. He overlooked the area sceptically, took in the small, frozen lake with the island in the middle, and the surrounding woods. None of the other champions was here yet – but since they didn't know if Moriarty had something to do with that, too, or if they were still simply wandering the woods, there was not much they could do.

And so John started to set up the tent while Sherlock claimed he was going to 'check the surroundings' – it was just a lie to get out of doing the boring work, as they both knew, but John wasn't calling out his boyfriend on that and simply set for working on the tent. It was easier that way, anyway, since Sherlock was surprisingly incapable when it came to practical things like that – he had a complete map of Hogwarts and the grounds in his head and could build a bomb with the rests of your sandwich and some potion ingredients, but hand him a tent and he would rather tie himself to the branches of a tree with the strings for the night than setting it up the way it was supposed to be.

When he was finally done, John let his gaze roam over the scenery once more. "Do you think I should have a quick look around as a dog?"

Sherlock's face lit up for a moment, showing John that he hadn't thought of that and although he quickly went back to his indifferent face, John didn't try to hide his smile when, seconds later, the Slytherin had him up against a tree and a cold nose pressed against John's own.

"I'll take that as a yes, then," the Gryffindor panted, minutes later, and Sherlock nodded once, already moving around the shore of the lake. "Be careful, alright? I'll be ten minutes or something."

Sherlock only nodded absently and watched how John's shape shifted into the medium-sized dog that yapped once and then disappeared between the trees with a light jog.

The genius took in their surroundings once more – it was obvious they would have to cross the lake to get to the small island in the morning, but the ice seemed thick enough to support them, well, maybe not John, but surely himself since he was lighter.

When John was gone a good time already, Sherlock heard the tell-tale crumbling and snapping of dead leaves and branches – _too heavy for John in his dog form, but too light for it to be him as a human_ - and whirled around, but his head was sent around with a SMACK and he went down, more from surprise than from actual pain.

Looming over him, bathed in silver moonlight, was Irene and she was very much not dead and smirking and then she drove a syringe into his neck. "Sorry, love. I win."

_Of course Irene wasn't dead, the venom of an Acromantula decomposes the victims, and Irene was most definitely not composed when John stumbled over her – it had all been a trick, a magic trick –_ Sherlock had known, his brain had known, he'd just been too stupid to see, maybe too preoccupied – "Will you be able to think when John is bleeding out into the frozen ground?" he remembered Irene's words and obviously he wasn't able to think – well John wasn't bleeding he was just covered under a pile of deadly spiders – _shut up_ – the outcome was the same, Sherlock hadn't thought and now he was being drugged and Irene was not dead –

"I'm not doing this for Jim, you know? Well, part of me does. I don't want him on my track. But now that I'm officially dead, and you're knocked out, he should be content."

Her voice sounded sweet and too soft in Sherlock's quickly blurring senses and he tried to stagger to his feet, but whatever it was she had injected, it was working quickly, too quickly for him stay coherent or functioning.

He crashed back into the icy ground and as much as he wanted, he couldn't get up again. Irene leaned down, stroked over his cheek one last time and whispered: "I'll see you," before disappearing out of his vision.

Seconds or maybe hours or days or weeks later – it was hard to tell, everything was fuzzy – footsteps thrummed closer and then John dropped down next to him and he was all blue eyes and worry and Sherlock mumbled: "Jus' drugged, 'm fiiiine. 'm fine…" before darkness swallowed him.

X

Despite of how serious the situation was, John couldn't help but grumble as he dragged the unconscious Slytherin into their small tent. Of course the first panic wasn't soothed the slightest bit at Sherlock's 'just drugged' statement – as if that was any consolation?! – but his pulse was even, his breathing, too, and he didn't have any other injuries but a cut on his cheek that drew a little blood.

Sherlock obviously needed to be carried into the warmth quickly, away from the cold ground, and so John gave in to his fate, curled his arms around his boyfriend and, with some effort, managed to get him into the tent. Luckily, just like any other wizard tent, it was at least a bit bigger on the inside and John quickly lit a fire and, ridding Sherlock of his shoes and clammy coat, positioned the genius in front of it on some rugs.

He stepped outside one more time, going through his arsenal of hex-deflection and protection spells to secure their camp for the rest of the night – _should've done that before,_ he chastised himself - and then snuggled up next to Sherlock – sharing body warmth was the intelligent thing to do, after all – quickly fell asleep, feeling the exhaustion of the task so far.

At some point in the night, John was woken by flailing limps and incoherent blabber. Sherlock sat bolt upright and tried to stagger to his feet, all the while going on about "The woman, John! The woman!"

John, startled to death by the sudden pile of flailing detective, did his best to calm the other boy down and tugged him close, almost getting hit square on the nose when Sherlock threw his arms around to get free. "What are you talking about Sherlock?! What woman?"

The genius managed an annoyed huff, followed by "HER, John, the woman woman," and finally John realized Sherlock was talking about Irene Adler. Feeling a pang in his heart when he remembered the cold, dead body covered in bite marks, he only tightened his grip, convinced that Sherlock had been dreaming and couldn't remember what had happened to Irene due to his drugged state and all he wanted was to comfort the clearly confused boy.

After a while of cooing and gentle strokes and pats, Sherlock seemed to calm down and suddenly toppled over, knocked out again and a deadweight on John's chest.

With a groan, the Gryffindor tried to wriggle into a more comfortable position while trying not to disturb the sleeping boy in his arms, and wondered if the other champions were equally stressed out – seriously, you didn't need deadly spiders or Hinkypunks or Red Hats when you had a drugged genius with you.

X

Sherlock's brain took 37 seconds to reboot and spring into action in the morning, which was very disturbing, but completely understandable once he remember that Irene – not dead, very alive Irene – had drugged him hours ago. Even more disturbing was that although all signs pointed to John's presence in the tent only minutes ago – the place on the rug (why on the rug and not on the bed? Oh yes, fireplace; he must've been cold from lying on the ground for a while, John would have wanted to keep him warm) next to him still held residual warmth from someone sleeping on it and the tent doors were flapping open, allowing the icy morning air inside.

There was a very persistent, annoying noise in the background, like a cat screaming and Sherlock later blamed it on the drugs that it took him another 13 seconds to realize that this was the alarm of the warning and protection spells. He was on his feet instantly, slipping into his shoes and then hurrying out of the tent.

It was considerably ungraceful because his limbs didn't exactly cooperate with him and the cold air that hit him fully when he stepped into the bright morning light that was reflected on the icy surface of the frozen lake and stung his eyes made him realize that he'd left his coat inside and was standing in the Forbidden Forest in the middle of January wearing only trousers and dark green dress shirt.

"WATCH OUT!" John called and Sherlock, without thinking whirled around and blindly fired three Stunning Spells – one hit the tent, one a tree, and one hit Rebecca's sister square in the chest, sending her to the ground and her milky, clouded eyes rolled back in her head before she passed out.

_Imperius Curse,_ Sherlock realized, but unfortunately this thought had to wait until he picked himself up from the ground again, because the impressive whirl around had been too much for his still recovering body and had sent him to the ground in a pile of limbs.

He scrambled back to his feet as fast as he could, and just in time to witness how Rebecca, who was extremely bruised and had scratches all over her face, dragged a struggling John over the ice. The cracking, creaking ice.

She was obviously under the influence of the Unforgivable Curse, too, going by the state of her eyes, but right now, that was no excuse if she tried to kill John – which seemed very likely. Sherlock's mind raced through their options – he couldn't go after her, because the two of them were already too much for the ice and his additional weight would end in three drowning students, and he couldn't stun her because she used John's body as a shield.

John was wise enough not to struggle too much, because he, too, realized the threat of breaking ice (and Sherlock suspected the Gryffindor was not comfortable with hitting a girl, either).

The most important thing was to secure John in case the ice was giving in, Sherlock realized, and he whipped his wand and called "Carpe Retractum!", watching satisfied how a rope shot out of his wand and tied itself around John's right leg. Now they had to be quick, because obviously Rebecca was already lifting her wand to cut through the rope, but Sherlock couldn't simply drag John towards him since the Gryffindor would be an easy target while he was sliding over the ice.

"You have to stun me and get her off!" John called, face grim and when their eyes met for a moment, Sherlock tried to make him see that he hated what he had to do but John was right and it was the only sensible option.

The Stunning Spell, aimed at John's shoulder (where the Basilisk fang had pierced him, and where it would hurt terribly and probably do a lot of damage) which was closest to Rebecca, since they only had one chance, had a crashing impact and Sherlock realized to late that the weight of the two falling students would be too much for him to hold.

John, always considerate, even if he was being held hostage, had wrapped his arm around Rebecca's, split-seconds before the spell hit him, and when they both went down, John howling in pain and Rebecca unnaturally silent due to the curse upon her, Sherlock dug his feet into the ground to pull them over the ice, but while he was fast and considerably skilled in hand-to-hand-combat, he was simply not strong enough to pull two teenagers that far that quickly, not even if he hadn't been drugged before, and with a deafening crack, the ice broke and John and Rebecca disappeared in the black water.

With enough time, Sherlock probably could've come up with a plan – the only problem was that time was the one thing they were short of. Of course John wouldn't freeze to death instantly, no, the bigger problem was drowning, how Sherlock knew very well. And John WOULD drown if he kept holding up Rebecca.

A normal body took about 10 minutes until its temperature fell below 33 degrees, which led to stiffening muscles and then, when the body temperature fell below 30 degrees, unconsciousness would be reached. Even then, the hypothermic brain would need so little oxygen that there would be no lasting damages for about an hour – if the victim didn't drown. Which John was about to do.

However, John and Sherlock had a guardian angel, and although that angel wasn't exactly beautiful and had white, feathery wings, it matched the two boys perfectly. The Thestral came out of nowhere, searing down from the sky with its bat wings stretched out and casting a horrifying shadow over the broken ice and then it neighed, a sound of dry, crumbling leaves and scraping bones and dove straight into the lake.

Seconds later, it reemerged from the cold water, wings still flapping effortlessly as if it didn't even feel the weight of the two students dangling from his mouth. Sherlock winced when he saw the fangs of the horse drilled into John's arm, but of course that was the only way it was able to carry the two soaked students. The Thestral dropped John and Rebecca at the small island and then shot back towards Sherlock, landing with a thump and rearing up once.

The Slytherin quickly used the Levitation Charm to get Rebecca's sister on the back of the creature before grabbing his coat from the inside of the crashed tent and climbing up himself, all the while not speaking a word. The Thestral knew what to do, though, and carried the two of them over to John and Rebecca swiftly.

John was already sitting up when Sherlock reached him, and although he was shivering madly and his pale face stood in sharp contrast to his blue lips, he managed a relieved smile at the sight of Sherlock on the creature and staggered to his feet. Behind them, Rebecca was awake and clear in her mind, too, although she didn't speak and simply looked around, trying to sort out what had happened.

Sherlock draped his coat around John's shoulders and then tugged his head close, framing it with two hands and scanning the Gryffindor intently. John smiled shakily and then leaned in, pressing icy lips to Sherlock's, relishing the warmth coming from his friend and sighing contently. Obviously, Sherlock wasn't exactly warm, seeing as he was dressed in only a shirt, but to John's icy body, he felt like a hot-water bottle.

The Thestral behind them stomped the ground once, and John, flushing (_good sign,_ Sherlock noticed, _if blood can return to his cheek, he's going to be alright)_ made two wobbly steps towards the creature and patted the sleek, fleshless neck twice. "Thank you," he mumbled sincerely, and the beast threw its head back once before nudging the Gryffindor and then lifting off the ground, almost knocking John over in the process.

"Look, John," Sherlock suddenly told him and John followed his pointed finger. A few meters away, a tiny statue of a Griffin had materialized out of nothing.

"You c-c-c-an't be s-s-s-serious," John gasped, teeth clattering. God, he was so _cold!_

"I'm only being practical. I think that if you attach the wing, we can get out of here. They must've turned it into a portkey to make sure the first one reaching it would be brought back to the castle as the winner," the Slytherin argued back and, using Accio, quickly retrieved the wing from the remains of the tent at the shore of the lake.

Too tired, cold and exhausted to argue – and because Sherlock's theory was convincing, too – John stiffly walked over, took the wing from Sherlock and then moved to stand next to the statue. "Y-y-y-you have to hold on t-t-t-to Rebecca, her sister and m-m-m-me," he managed and Sherlock for once obeyed quickly, grabbing the two Germans and curling one finger through the belt loop of John's trousers before nodding sharply.

With one last look over the area, John re-attached the wing and returned Sherlock's triumphant grin as the pull of portkey magic yanked them forward.

X

The portkey took them out of the Forest and back to the Great Hall, where all students were gathered already. John blinked at the sudden change of scenery but was too busy with his clattering teeth, his soaked clothes and Sherlock's coat that was wrapped around him securely but didn't exactly help much with warmth because he was just too cold.

Rebecca, who still looked confused and was holding her sister, who was coming back from unconsciousness, too, seemed relieved that they were finally out of the Forest again and Yves wasn't even present, something that would've alarmed John hadn't he been slowly freezing to death.

Applause branded up when they appeared in the Hall, though, and the most enthusiastic were the Gryffindors who cheered loudly for their champion and, surprisingly enough, even for Sherlock. Mercifully though, Professor McGonagall obviously understood how bad they were all doing, so she quickly silenced the Hall and said to the champions: "Congratulations on finishing the Second Task." She then turned towards the students at the tables and continued: "Without further ado, we will proceed to announce the winners of this task and even although we had slight difficulties to witness everything they encountered, the Ministry has decided that all performances were within the guidelines. And so, on third place – we have Mr. Gabin from Beauxbatons, who unfortunately could not complete the task fully."

She made a short pause and everyone clapped politely, while John decided to question that statement later and just shivered harder.

"Our first place is a tie this time-" McGonagall's voice was drowned out for a moment as the Gryffindors jumped up and a roar of excitement went through the hall and while Rebecca and John shared a tired smile, they couldn't be quite as enthusiastic.

"-victors of this task are Miss Schmidt and Mr. Watson!"

And then John didn't hear anything else anymore because his vision blurred and he slumped against Sherlock, who did everything to hold him up. Hands moved over him and someone pushed a cup to his lips – the liquid inside almost burnt his throat but did wonders to his icy inside and then their whole group was led away to the Hospital Wing.

Much later, in the afternoon, John awoke to sunlight on his nose and a sleeping Sherlock at his bedside. John lazily smiled to himself at the soft curls resting on his upper left arm and Sherlock's sleepy murmur of "John". Suddenly, though, the Slytherin's soft features hardened a bit and John was sure he could hear "….woman…" before Sherlock relaxed again.

But John wasn't angry or jealous – no, he was sad, because clearly Irene had meant a lot to Sherlock – on whatever weird basis they had shared. He knew from the way Sherlock had looked when he had talked about her before and had looked when he saw her dead in the snow.

John and Sherlock shared a special bound, something that was delicate and strong at the same time, and maybe, very possibly, it was love. But Sherlock had also felt something for Irene Adler. And while it wasn't quite the same thing he had with John, John knew it was something special.

Because to Sherlock Holmes, she was and would always be _the _woman. The one woman who mattered.

* * *

_**YOU LITTLE CUPCAKES YOU'RE THE SWEETEST FOLLOWERS AND REVIEWERS EVER SRSLY YOU GUYS ARE AMAZING THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR EVERYTHING YOU SAID!  
**_**You are wonderful people.**  
**Love always and DFTBA**  
**Hanna**


	19. Sixth Year - Triwiz Tournament Part III

Luckily, the staff waited for everyone to get better before asking them what had been going on in the Forest and that gave Sherlock enough time to do his own little research.

Neither Rebecca nor her sister could remember much besides being attacked in the middle of the night. John hated to lie to them, but when Sherlock decided not to tell them they had been influenced by the Imperius Curse and had attacked the Hogwarts champion and his companion, the Gryffindor had to agree – no one seemed to realize Moriarty's intervention and if they talked about the Imperius Curse, there would be investigations.

Yves told them he and Irene had been attacked by a troll and apparently Irene had run, claiming she didn't want to go to Hogwarts anymore and only wanted to take part in the Task so she could run away. Soon after, the French had send out the sparks and the staff had rescued him.

Since Irene was of legal age, there was no point in trying to locate her and although Professor McGonagall disapproved of the Ravenclaw's way of leaving the school, she had to accept it. That did explain while no one had come looking for her when John and Sherlock had found her body.

"Shouldn't we tell them that we found her, though?" John asked, voice rough since he was definitely coming down with a cold from being almost drowned in the icy lake. "I mean, her parents-"

"Are not alive anymore. She's been living alone since last summer, there is no one that should be informed. And even if there was, I don't think we would find her body if we went looking for it," Sherlock told him. He hadn't told John that Irene was very much alive and he didn't plan on doing so. Irene would remain his only secret and a small smile appeared on his face when he thought of her. He made sure John didn't see, though. Smiling at the memory of someone supposedly dead was probably not-good, how the Gryffindor put Sherlock's improper behaviour at times.

After Yves', Irene's, and the two Germans' story was clear, the only missing puzzle piece was why no one had wondered when John and Sherlock were in serious trouble. However, Professor McGonagall explained it to them in the evening of the end of the Second Task.

"Congratulations on making a tie with Ms. Schmidt on the Second Task, Mr. Watson," she said and smiled fondly at the boy from her House. "Although the Trace put on you and Mr. Holmes was quite instable-" she gave Sherlock a look that clearly indicated she wasn't sure if that wasn't _his_ fault (after all, he was known to like experimenting and getting rid of a ministerial trace seemed like something he would do), "-but both your vital signs were transmitted all the time and allowed us to keep an eye on you."

John raised an eyebrow. His vital signs had been okay? And Sherlock's, too?

Drugging and almost drowning in ice water wasn't exactly good for your health, so the Trace had most likely been under Moriarty's control.

"Yes, well, we, uhm, we did our best in the Forest…" he replied lamely and wished again that everyone would leave him alone for a while. His head was tormented by a splitting headache and his stuffy nose and aching throat didn't help much, either.

Fortunately, the Headmistress seemed to understand and with one last look at John and a wish of 'get-well-soon', she turned to leave. "Oh, and Mr. Holmes- your brother stayed behind, he wishes to talk to you," she added.

John, sensing Sherlock's unwillingness already, quickly told her: "Could you tell him to come in here? Sherlock is… uhm, in shock and not supposed to leave the Hospital Wing. Mycroft is more than welcome to join us here, though." Sherlock sent John a thankful look – at least he wouldn't have to deal with Mycroft alone – and put a more miserable look on his face quickly.

McGonagall didn't believe them, that was obvious, but she nevertheless turned – John wasn't sure if he just imagined the small smile playing in the corners of her lips – and agreed.

"Look, I know you don't want to talk to Mycroft, but maybe he's got new information on Moriarty," John tried when the Headmistress was gone, again wishing he could just sleep in peace for a bit longer. With two Holmeses in Hogwarts that wasn't likely to happen any time soon, though.

As if he could have read his thoughts (highly probable, considering it was Mycroft), the older Holmes waltzed into the Hospital Wing.

A scrutinizing look fell on John almost instantly and the Gryffindor realized he hadn't seen Mycroft since the First Task – he wondered if Sherlock's brother knew about them. Well, Sherlock surely hadn't told him but from the way Mycroft looked at both of them and the smallest of smirks appeared on his face (yes, John had become quite adapt at reading Holmes faces) he had the uncomfortable feeling Mycroft knew. And found it highly amusing.

All he said, was "Congratulations on your win, John", though, and then locked his eyes on his brother.

"Your behaviour is most childish," he told him sweetly and Sherlock fought the urge to make a face.

"At least I'm not carrying an umbrella around in the middle of January," he snarked back, but it was half-heartedly, a sign of how exhausted he still was although he didn't want to show it.

"It's useful if you don't want to get wet, little brother," Mycroft replied, as if talking to a five-year-old, and then raised an eyebrow. "Speaking of, what is the real reason for John being soaked to the bone? I presume Moriarty has to do with it?"

"'John' is right here, you know," John reminded the two brothers and Mycroft turned, smiling sweetly. "Of course. I apologize – but do tell, what exactly happened? We already have the suspicion that your trace was being manipulated."

"Moriarty cursed Rebecca and her sister to attack us and we broke through the ice into the lake." John explained. He knew Sherlock wasn't going to condescend to fill Mycroft in and the sooner he did it, the sooner he would find his peace.

"Ah." Mycroft nodded in understanding.

"What's going on in the Ministry?" Sherlock interrupted harshly, eyes trained on his brother.

"Patience is a virtue, Sherlock," Mycroft told him and looked faintly amused when Sherlock almost hissed at him. "As I said before, the wizards that were put in charge of the trace disappeared four hours ago and two of them were found dead not half an hour earlier. There is reason to believe they were cursed, too, to manipulate the trace."

"So Moriarty has people inside the Ministry and you do nothing about it?" Sherlock sounded almost angry now and John, as well as Mycroft, clearly heard it.

"Your anger, brother, is understandable, but uncalled for. I checked all possible leaks today and I can assure you the Ministry is rid of Moriarty's people."

"Oh, yes, that's calming, considering he tried to kill us yesterday and tonight." Sherlock crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, refusing to meet Mycroft's eyes. That was a sign of how serious Sherlock was – if he stared at you, deduced things about you or yelled at you, he was mad, but not worryingly so. If he ignored you, though… well, the phrase 'you're dead to me' applied in a literal sense then.

Obviously, Mycroft knew this set of mind already, and he sighed, before leaving again, not without wishing John all the best.

It was a while until Sherlock talked again, and John was half-asleep when that moment came.

"That pompous, big bastard, who does he think he is, acting all-"

"Sherlock? Just shut up okay?" John was tired, his voice was almost gone, and Sherlock was startled by the interruption. Now he pouted.

"Come here, will you?"

For a moment, it looked like he was just going to sulk by himself, but John's tired smile and soft pads on the mattress seemed too inviting and so he scrambled up, squishing into the small space next to the Gryffindor and pointedly shut his eyes, arms crossed over his chest. John simply smiled to himself, coughed a bit and made himself comfortable on Sherlock's boney shoulder before thankfully drifting off again.

Talking and thinking had almost been more tiring than fighting spiders or drowning and he was glad the day was finally over.

X

Sherlock watched John in the darkness of the Hospital Wing.

He still shivered sometimes, in his sleep, not quite rid of the cold that had seeped deep into his body in the lake that morning.

"_I will burn the heart out of you."_

Moriarty had meant it, Sherlock realized. You didn't need fire to burn- ice could burn just as well and he'd almost lost John. If the Thestral hadn't come… well, no point in thinking about it now.

He always knew it would be dangerous for John, but shutting him off hadn't worked, he'd been attacked nevertheless and Sherlock was done with hiding now. He might not like it in this situation, but John was stuck with him and wouldn't let go of Moriarty, even if Sherlock asked him to.

His stubborn, wonderful John.

True, it was unsettling to be so vulnerable, to have his heart exposed like that, but Sherlock had realized some time ago that he couldn't go without John and, sappy notion aside, he did function better when John was around.

Of course, Moriarty had to be fuming by now – Irene had beaten him, John had beaten him and Mycroft, the stupid brat, had managed to get rid of the moles in the Ministry. For now, they had won, although there was no doubt that Moriarty would come again. The Third Task was still awaiting them, after all.

Staring at John for a while, taking in the sleeping figure, Sherlock calmed down more and more, until he retreated to his mind to go through everything that had happened. When he came back minutes or hours later – time could fly while he was thinking – he smiled and carefully slipped out of bed as to not disturb the Gryffindor before making his way out of the Hospital Wing and through the nightly castle in direction of the Owlery.

Maybe it was time to send out an invitation. This time, they were going to meet personally.

X

Three days later, John was finally released out of the Hospital Wing, after finally getting over the cold and stopping throwing up lake water at random occasions.

There was a small celebration feast for the tie-winners in the Great Hall then, and John and Sherlock told everyone a made-up story about what had happened. John felt worse than Sherlock about lying not only to Rebecca and her sister, but also to his friends – especially since he thought Greg would probably understand and deserved to know the truth about Moriarty, but Sherlock kept saying no.

And really, it was hard enough to keep up with Sherlock these days with the additional training hours for the Apparition tests and the usual schoolwork, so agreeing to the genius' plans was easier than fighting them.

The official from the Ministry, Mr. Twycross, droned on hours and hours about the "Three D's of Apparition" – "Destination, Determination, and Deliberation, Mr. Watson!" – but the later the afternoons got, the less everyone's concentration got and most of the lessons ended with someone splinching various body parts, including Greg's left ear (Madame Pomfrey fixed it easily, but the look of horror remained on John's friend's face for the rest of the week), tufts of hair and eyebrows.

Sherlock had no such troubles and although he wasn't allowed to take the test along with the others in the beginning of March because his birthday was yet to come, he agreed to help John practice in the Room of Requirement beforehand.

"It's not that hard!" the Slytherin scolded John for the umpteenth time, throwing himself on a sofa in frustration when John once again had lost focus.

"Well, not all of us are geniuses!" the Gryffindor muttered and earned an actual amused snort.

"That would be too much to hope for, yes."

"Aw, but then I wouldn't be impressed anymore and you had no-one to _ooh_ and _aah_ at your every word," John teased back.

"Ah, well…" Sherlock shook his head and then his face got serious again as he jumped up and focused on John again. "Alright, now concentrate so we get this over and done with."

Twenty minutes (three shouted abuses and two Stunning Spells fired at the wall to release tension) later, John had successfully moved from one hoop into the other, all his body parts were still attached to where they belonged to and Sherlock wore the grin of a person who knew all the success was down to him. John didn't mind, though, and proceeded to express his thankfulness creatively with Sherlock pressed against the closest wall.

When the time for the tests rolled around, John, Greg and Alec passed it without problems, while Zack and Mike both splinched and had to re-take the test later in the year, together with Sherlock who would be old enough then, too.

If John thought his life was going to be less stressful after the tests, though, he was wrong, because Sherlock insisted on him keeping up with all sorts of spells that could be helpful in the unknown Third Task that would take place on the 6th May.

Aside from non-verbal spells (which John managed sometimes, the other Sixth Years never and Sherlock only if he wanted to), the Gryffindor worked his way through volumes with Healing Spells, thinking that they would definitely come in handy, seeing as he and Sherlock ended up half-dead more often than not and a way of clearing the throat to prevent death of choking or healing deep gashes caused by Dark Magic seemed only appropriate.

Sherlock worked his way through dark magic, something that John cringed at and couldn't approve of, but the Slytherin wasn't concerned. If Moriarty was concerned, they would need all the magic they could get, good or dark magic.

John had the feeling Sherlock was hiding something from him, but when he prodded, he was being dismissed. However, whole areas of the mind palace were locked suddenly, and if that was even possible, Sherlock acted more possessive than ever, keeping an eye on John all the time. The attention was not unwanted per se, but it did strike John as strange.

X

Another thing besides Apparition John and Sherlock practiced quite a lot in the privacy of the Room of Requirement – and therefore Sherlock's mind palace – were Patronuses. Sherlock knew they could be used to carry messages and now that he had finally found his inspiration to cast them, he was unstoppable.

John often watched in awe how the silver lioness appeared from Sherlock's wand and he always got a weird feeling in his chest when it did. He knew what it meant if two Patronuses resembled each other. They meant soul mates, two halves that made a whole together – and of course he and Sherlock had always been that way, but it also meant… well, love.

Half a year ago, John wouldn't have dared to believe Sherlock would reciprocate his feelings, would be interested in pursuing a romantic relationship with him, but here they were, still best friends, but also lovers. Maybe not in every way (yet?) but in many. None of them had used the l-word, though. John often thought it and Sherlock – well, Sherlock never talked much about emotions anyway, so that didn't have to mean anything.

But still – seeing his Patronus did something good to John. He didn't need to hear Sherlock say the l-world, hell, he hadn't said it either, after all, but even although Sherlock claimed John was the only one worth of his time and attention, John only realized now that having the vivid evidence of Sherlock's affection, a mirror of his soul in form of silver mist, was what he wanted, _needed_ to see.

After some particularly stressful hours of casting the Patronus over and over again, Sherlock walked over to one of the sofas in the palace, where John was currently sprawled out and lazily holding his face into the afternoon sun coming through a window. Sherlock flopped down, his head placed in John's lap, and the Gryffindor only protested lightly before adjusting his position on the sofa and threading his fingers into dark curls.

Sherlock hummed in appreciation and closed his eyes.

"I must admit, I had anticipated my Patronus to be different," he said, without any indication where that thought came from, although John was a bit startled – it was as if Sherlock had read his thoughts.

"Well, it does resemble either your character or it matches the one of your… uhm significant other," John tried, not sure what he was supposed to say.

"The lioness obviously resembles your lion, yes, but I wonder what it would look like if they didn't match? Would yours be different? Would mine be different?" Sherlock made a face – not knowing things was something he despised.

"We're not going to find out, though," John replied defensively. Part of him knew that Sherlock was only curious, but the other part growled a possessive 'you're mine, forget about everything else'.

"Why not?!" The genius' eyes shot open and John inwardly groaned – he knew that look, and while it usually meant excitement, he wished Sherlock would just let go of the topic.

"Sherlock, you can't change your Patronus just because you want to!"

"Patronuses change all the time!" The Slytherin was already up on his feet again, wand clutched tightly and eyes beaming with excitement. However, shortly later, he stood perfectly still in the middle of the room, face blank and eyes shut.

John was annoyed for a bit – why did Sherlock have to change his Patronus? Couldn't he simply stick with the soul mate-meaning and leave it at that? Then, the Gryffindor sighed and a small smile played around his lips. _Of course not. He was Sherlock Holmes. _

A sudden firm call of "Expecto Patronum!" startled him from his sulking and he watched in unwilling wonder how silver mist once again broke free from Sherlock's wand – although this time, it didn't take the form of a lioness. Instead, a silver otter paddled through the air, nose with whiskers up in the air and looking around rapidly.

John couldn't help but snort at Sherlock's surprised and a bit annoyed look. "An otter."

It was obvious he'd expected something else.

"Well, it does look a bit like you," John managed, still grinning. Sherlock gave him an annoyed look.

"I do not, in no way, resemble an otter."

John kept on giggling. "Of course not. How could I? No but seriously – they're said to be intelligent and curious, that does fit!"

Sherlock still looked a bit indignantly, but not as annoyed as before and he gave the otter one last judging look before it vanished.

"How about you, John?"

John made a face. "I don't think it's going to change. After all, I had mine before you."

"Yes, but if I managed to change mine, and you-" Sherlock hesitated for a moment, something so rare John looked up in alarm, but then the genius continued, "-you feel the same things for me as I feel for you, so your Patronus should assimilate itself accordingly to my new one."

_You feel the same things for me as I feel for you._

Well, that meant quite a lot, coming from Sherlock Holmes. John couldn't help but smile and then he sat up, picking up his wand. "Fine." If it made Sherlock happy to see if his Patronus had changed, he would do it, gladly so. Because a happy Sherlock meant a happy John. Easy as that.

"Expecto Patronum!" The memories always came easy, thinking of happy things with Sherlock only meters away was never a problem and the spell worked the way it always did.

Only that instead of the roaring lion that had protected John ever since their third year, something small and round suddenly wobbled through the room. The two boys stared at it – Sherlock with amused interest, John in disbelief.

"I gave up a lion for… for that?!"

"'That' is a hedgehog, John, you might as well use its correct name."

"What's a hedgehog got to do with an otter?" John asked, still eyeing the small mammal with reservation. It was such a change to the powerful, roaring lion.

"Apparently everything, do keep up! That's how the Patronus works. I didn't make the rules," Sherlock dismissed him. "Besides, a hedgehog does suit you – it's small but can be dangerous. The parasites and fleas they carry-"

The look John sent him actually made Sherlock shut up immediately. He couldn't think of which part of his explanation had been not-good, but obviously some part was, judging by John's look.

The Gryffindor was in a foul mood for the rest of the day and usually, Sherlock wouldn't have picked up on it, but it meant snappy responses to deductions, not a single praise for a particularly smart thing he'd said and when he sneaked a kiss before John was leaving for supper – dull – the Gryffindor only responded half-heartedly. And that was something Sherlock couldn't have – if John wanted a relationship, he better poured everything he had into it! After all, Sherlock didn't like doing things by halves.

X

It took Sherlock three days to figure out what was wrong with John and two more two form a plan. As soon as he had one, he realized that it was about time, because it was already the day before the Third Task and if he was correct – which was most likely – Moriarty would attack again and John needed to be fully aware of everything going on, without being distracted by anything.

"_Come to the Room of Requirement tonight. I need to show you something. –SH"_

The note was delivered to John by Athena in the afternoon and before the Third Task and he scribbled back a hasty reply, not sure what was going on – but with Sherlock, you never were, so he figured it would all be revealed soon enough.

Things between them had been a bit weird the past couple of days and John knew it was partly because he was being irrational – it shouldn't bother him that much that Sherlock had wanted to change his Patronus so badly, almost as if he didn't want anyone to know what he felt for John; but of course, that was stupid because as far as John knew, Sherlock hadn't done it intentionally. He wasn't exactly aware of feelings, was better in recognizing them in others than himself, and he certainly hadn't meant harm when he willingly changed his Patronus, but John nevertheless felt as if Sherlock had done it intentionally to… what? Hide his feelings?

_You're repeating yourself,_ John's inner Sherlock noticed and the Gryffindor shook his head to clear it.

"You alright, mate?" Greg asked from his seat, head cocked, and John quickly smiled.

"Yeah. Just… thinking."

"Are you worried about the task? It's pretty strange they still haven't told you anything yet…"

"Yes…" John wriggled around in his chair a bit, making a face. "It would've been better to know something, you know? To prepare. But I guess I'll find out tomorrow."

"Well, they wouldn't make you do something you can't do, right? It can't be too hard or dangerous."

"Famous last words," John half-joked, remembering too well his bath in the icy cold lake or being buried alive under spiders. Granted, that was partly Moriarty's doing, but still. Since he and Sherlock could be almost certain that Moriarty was going to meddle with them again in the Third Task, it was nothing to take light, hence the entire extra practice on spells and hexes.

After supper that night, John left his friends at the conjunction of corridors on the Seventh Floor and told Greg that he'd meet up with Sherlock before he made his way to the Room of Requirement.

As usual, the inconspicuous door appeared instantly as John came closer and concentrated and he quickly slipped in, once again finding himself in the entrance hall of the palace. Usually, Sherlock would either wait for him here or doors would open for John to go through, leading him to the genius. The latter was the case today and John, quite curious, followed the steps, clearly heading west instead of east, which was the usual direction.

Soon enough, he realized where Sherlock was waiting for him.

The double-winged door looked the same as it had in the Fifth Year and when John pushed it open, he found Sherlock standing on the small balcony from where he'd overlooked the room before.

John remembered the Wing from his very first trip to the Room of Requirement. It had already been big back that day, with dozens of doors leading away from the round middle, still with the loopy _John Watson_ carved into the marble – but now there were hundreds of doors. On different stories, some without actual doors, just frames, some closed, most of them ajar.

"This is… wow." He was dumbfounded.

"This is you," Sherlock simply noted. "Everything I know about you, everything you told me, your body told me, everything remotely connected to you – it's here."

The Gryffindor was still too overwhelmed to respond and instead slowly made his way down the spiral staircase, followed by Sherlock. On the ground, he made some careful steps into the room, turning on the spot for a moment before walking towards a door that was slightly ajar, reading the label. "Loyalty."

"It's one of the biggest rooms."

John blushed and then moved to open the door. He planned on stepping in, but as soon as the door was wide, a flush of thoughts hit him, words in his head, his voice and Sherlock's voice, mingled, mixed and he swiftly pushed the door close again, panting in shock. "What- what was that?"

Sherlock smiled. "Everything I have labeled with loyalty concerning you. When I…-" the smile disappeared, "-when I was high, these thoughts sometimes broke free and followed me. It was hard getting them back in there, so when I managed, I locked the whole wing."

"Yes, well, drugging yourself was stupid," John told him flatly, but made sure to take the edge of his words, since he knew Sherlock's reasons.

"I have never been called stupid before," the genius observed lightly.

"Now, I think that's a lie. Greg and I call you stupid at least once a week, depending on what you blew up this time."

Sherlock simply waved dismissively and then turned to look serious. "I brought you here for a reason."

"I figured. What is it?"

"Come on. I'll show you something." The Slytherin simply started marching towards one door and John quickly followed, noticing that it wasn't labeled in any way. Inside, there was a room that looked like an exact replica of Sherlock's room back at Holmes Manor, but the only piece of furniture was his bed; everything else was gone.

John almost asked what was so special about this room, but Sherlock simply sat down on the bed, gesturing for his companion to do the same. When he started to talk, his voice was calm and deep, although his eyes gave away some sort of inner turmoil that John found unsettling to see.

"John, you know me. You know I think feelings are dull." Sherlock looked dead serious and John, although he hated to feel like that, felt his heart drop a bit in his chest. However, Sherlock continued, fixing his eyes on the Gryffindor's. "But if I have to feel… if you… if you make me feel, if I have to feel one emotion, then I'm willing to commit to it fully. Do you understand?"

"I-"

John wasn't _sure_ if he did. He looked into the pale silver eyes that were so familiar and tried to understand what his boyfriend was telling him. And to his utter surprise, he found that he _actually_ did.

Sherlock hated emotions, they clouded his mind, messed with his brain. But now he felt something for John and like everything Sherlock did, once he had come to terms with it, he drove himself fully into it because Sherlock didn't do things by halves. He concentrated everything he had on this one emotion, the one emotion that drove him towards John all the time. If Sherlock loved, than he truly loved and there was no room for anything else.

_Sherlock Holmes loved him._ And the git couldn't just say so.

Upon seeing the realization in John's eyes, Sherlock allowed himself a content smile. It was good to know John knew what was going on in him, but there was still something like hurt lingering in the Gryffindor's face. Sherlock knew what he had to do, though – he usually didn't say things that were obvious but John seemed to need to hear that he loved him out loud, and as long as John was concerned, Sherlock didn't mind so much. He would never mind, not with John.

And so he took John's face in his hands, because it seemed appropriate and he wanted to make sure the most important person in his life didn't miss a single word and emotion when he said, steady and clear: "I love you, John. I never thought I would be capable of doing so, but with you, everything is different. I don't know if I'm qualified to say this to you - and not-knowing feels uncomfortable, believe me – since I've never fully understood the concept of a romantic relationship. I will hurt you, probably over and over again, and I will not tell you everything, and I certainly will not tell you my _emotions_ often enough, but what I know is that I will love you – as much as I'm capable of - and I hope you understand."

When John stared at him with wide eyes, Sherlock's heart almost skipped a beat – honestly, there was one hell load of new feelings today – but then the blond slowly started to smile.

"You love me?"

"Oh joy, so your brain has decided to join us," Sherlock couldn't help but say and earned a slap on his arm from John, who was by now grinning brightly.

"Shut up, you're ruining the romance!"

"Already?" Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, but there was a sincere undertone and John shook his head lightly.

"Yes. But I expect that from you. And I won't have it any other way." He smiled, and then, as if remembering something, he added: "Oh and Sherlock? I love you, too, but you already knew that, right?"

And of course Sherlock said "Of course" and looked smug and John let him, but deep inside, hearing those words back from John made the genius happier than he'd ever imagined. It was strange how a combination of sounds, three or four words could influence people that much and it was also devastating to realize that, but at the same time, it was truly wonderful.

The night started out with kisses. Happy, warm John-kisses, sprinkles of sunlight on Sherlock's milky skin, and both boys moved with a security and calmness that was born from the moment. Tomorrow would have John trying to survive the final task of the Tournament, and Sherlock trying to figure out plots. Tomorrow would belong to Moriarty. But tonight…

Tonight belonged to Sherlock and John.

They took their time, deliberate touches, whispered conversations, soft caresses. It was important to engage Sherlock's mind just as much as his body and they made love, awkwardly, a bit unsure, but learning from each other, in the middle of Sherlock's mind, for the first time.

X

John headed back to the Gryffindor Tower around midnight – way too late for any students to be out of bed, but he was a Prefect, after all, so who was going to chastise him? And besides, he couldn't have cared less.

He felt pleasantly warm inside and a smile that would probably stay there for weeks was plastered on his face. If he'd had the choice, he'd stayed with Sherlock all night, but since neither of the champions knew what awaited them the next day, he figured that being back in the Gryffindor dorm and his own bed in the morning would be better in case one of the teachers came to pick him up.

Sherlock had lazily moved his hand and said he'd stay in the Room of Requirement and John blushed when he remember just how Sherlock had looked back there – still naked, a sheet lazily draped over his body, hair ruffled and lips kiss swollen.

The Gryffindor felt the urge to simply turn around and go back to his lover, but, with a sigh, he kept on his track and soon enough entered the Gryffindor Tower, sneaking up to his bed. Everyone else was asleep already and after changing into his pyjama and placing his wand on his nightstand, easily to reach in case he'd need it quickly in the morning, he crawled under his duvet and fell asleep quickly, a smile still sitting on his face.

X

John bolted upright in his bed when he heard a loud bang, a confused "What the-" coming from Greg's bed and then another bang, before silence fell over the bedroom.

He was on his feet instantly, blinking into the bright morning light, wand raised, but he could see nothing threatening whatsoever. In fact, he couldn't even see Greg. Or anyone else, for that matter.

He was completely alone in the room.

A glance at his watch told him it was eight in the morning so, usually, there should've been at least Greg, who liked to sleep in if he got the chance, and Alec (who once had slept until after lunch and everyone had been worried if he might have been dead instead of simply asleep) in the room – especially since he'd heard Greg's voice moments ago.

Something was definitely wrong.

John quickly changed into normal clothes – in case this was Moriarty's doing, he'd rather not face the evil genius in his pyjamas, thank you very much – and then carefully made his way out of the empty dorm room and down to the common room – which was empty, too. He called out a few times and then checked in on the other boys' dorms, as well as the girl's dorms (he, as a Prefect was allowed to do so without the stairs turning into a slide as it usual did when a boy tried to get up there) – but just like the rest of the Gryffindor Tower, it was completely empty.

Unsure of what to do now he turned on the spot in the middle of the common room for a moment, before he was startled by the voice of Professor McGonagall sounding through the room. She was nowhere to be seen though, so John supposed this was sounding through the whole castle.

"Welcome, Champions, to the Third Task of the Triwizard Tournament. At this moment, all three of you are positioned somewhere inside the castle. The First Task has tested your magic skills, the Second Task your ability to cope with dangerous and strange situations as well as your ability to work in a team, but this Task is different. It will test your ability to think logically and rational while being fast."

John relaxed just a bit, now realizing that the disappearance of his dorm mates and the rest of the students had obviously been planned by the staff beforehand.

"All three of you have to find your way out of the castle as quick as possible, but the position of corridors and staircases have been altered so you cannot rely on your old knowledge. You will have to work out the system behind them and plan your way accordingly. Good luck!"

And with that, McGonagall's voice died down and John was left, mouth slightly agape.

He'd counted on everything, really – monsters, dragons, raging firestorms, battles on broomsticks, wrestling bare-handed with trolls – but this… this was sort of anti-climatic. Seriously – getting out of the castle? Just that?

The rational part of his brain told him that this was going to be hard, yes, but other than that… well. What was the worst that could possibly happen?

Aside from – aside from Moriarty. If everyone was out of school, Sherlock would be an easy goal in the crowd and he, too, alone in the castle. He felt the panic rise in his chest, the panic of knowing that right at that moment, someone could sneak up on Sherlock (or him, but that wasn't so important and he was pretty sure he was alone in the common room) and attack. It was the same panic he'd felt while watching his father and mother getting attacked by Moriarty's hit-men or Sherlock going down with Greyback on top of him; but like all the other times, he willed the panic down again, focused on being steady and calm until he felt alright again and analyzed the situation.

It was unlikely that Moriarty was going to attack Sherlock while he was with Greg and the others, as well as a bunch of Ministry wizards and the whole staff of Hogwarts, not only because it would attract attention but also because Moriarty would want to talk to Sherlock which he wouldn't be able to do if he planned an assassination.

So right now, he, John, was the more likely target.

Sherlock had already assumed that Moriarty was going to attack during the Third Task, so the logical step would be to stay where he was, create a safe environment and let Moriarty come to him instead of mindlessly walking the castle, possibly running right into a trap.

John already had lifted his wand, ready to cast protection spells over the Common Room, when his brain followed an odd train of thoughts. He blamed it on Sherlock and the way he tried to make John think sometimes, but right now, he was glad. Because something occurred to him.

The students had obviously been carried out of the castle all in one go, or otherwise John would have noticed. Also, none of them could have known about the Task because even if they'd been sworn silent about it (and probably hexed), somehow information would've leaked out. Now, the easiest way of getting them all out at once would have been apparition, but you couldn't apparate or disapparate on the school grounds…if you weren't a House Elf.

A smile spread on John's face and he felt incredibly proud of having figured it out all by himself – but his train of thoughts wasn't ending yet.

If the Elves had used Side-Along Apparition, they needed to have known where the students would be. And John knew exactly one student who they wouldn't have been able to find. Because, he'd said it himself –

"_Could anyone walk in here?"_

"_No. The Room of Requirement, if handled correctly, can be the safest place in the castle."_

John dashed out of the common room.

He didn't know if Moriarty knew about the Come-And-Go-Room, if that had been part of his plan all along and if it was good or bad that Sherlock was still inside the castle, but he needed to find him.

X

John turned around three corners until he realized that he was in fact not on the Seventh Floor, where Gryffindor Tower usually was, but on the Fourth, and that disturbed him so much that he stopped in his tracks and tried to understand what was going on.

Of course this was the changed floor plan McGonagall had mentioned, but actually living in it now was quite different to just hearing someone talk about it. Going more slowly now, he made his way up some stairs, awaiting the familiar corners of the Fifth Floor to appear, but instead he suddenly was on the Second.

"Oh, for fuck's sake-"

It would take him hours to find Sherlock now if he-

When he realized his own stupidity, he scowled at his reflection in the window for a moment. Then, he concentrated hard on what he wanted – which was easy, seeing as Sherlock was basically always on his mind – and when he blinked and opened his eyes again, the familiar door had appeared in the wall to his left.

He jogged through the endless corridors and at least in here, everything was the way it always was. John felt the drag towards Sherlock immediately and, with some surprise, noticed that Sherlock must have moved at some point in the night, because his steps were now leading him to the room reserved for the 'Great Game'.

When he entered, Sherlock didn't look too surprised. "I see - you've made the right deductions." He gave John a fond smile.

The Gryffindor rolled his eyes, but briefly brushed his lips over Sherlock's willing the down the flutter in his stomach and the urge to do more. "Good morning to you, too."

"Futile convention. No time for that."

"Of course. How could I?" John replied snarkily, but turned to look at the door. "So, what are we going to do then? Do you know if Moriarty is going to attack?"

"He's most likely inside the castle already, but he will try and separate us to get rid of you," the genius replied nonchalantly.

"Well, then we won't let him separate us."

Sherlock flashed him an excited grin. "Exactly."

"So – hiding?"

The Slytherin shook his head vigorously. "No, that's dull. Besides, we're not safe here."

That startled John quite a bit. After all, this was the Room of Requirement – if Sherlock didn't want anyone to come in here, he could just-

"John, he's already _in my mind_. Quite literally so. Not just _on_ my mind as in me thinking of him – this room is an embodiment of my mind. He can just wander in here because he's already at home here, IN here."

Uncalled-for jealousy, mixed with protectiveness seared through John and only Sherlock's calming touch, just a bare hint of fingertips against the side of John's temple, calmed him down a bit. Gripping his wand tight, he hissed: "Well, then we better get rid of him. I don't want him in or on your mind for much longer."

Sherlock gave John a measuring look, that also held some warning – calm down, don't let it get to you, he will use you – before grabbing his own wand and making his way out of the room, closely followed by John.

As soon as they left the Room of Requirement, the door vanished and John had the feeling as if some sort of safe room for them had just disappeared but of course it hadn't been safe and they had to find Moriarty to end all of this.

With Sherlock, the labyrinth the castle had become wasn't so bad anymore and if he was being monitored – who knew by now? – Sherlock either didn't show up or no one cared if he was around. They wandered the castle for about an hour, with no sign of Yves or Rebecca or Moriarty, for that matter, but also without a single threat in sight.

"It's a pretty unimaginative task," John noted at some point.

"Oh, it's probably the Ministry's doing. They can't risk the death of a champion – not after 1996 – and the first two tasks turned out riskier than they had intended already," Sherlock explained. Of course that was not the whole truth, but John didn't ask more and so he stayed silent.

Finally, they came to a door that had a piece of parchment attached to it, and they exchanged glances before Sherlock reached out and plucked the small note from the wood.

"_Come play."_

John cleared his throat. "So this is it."

"Yes. Stay calm, John, don't let him influence you. You're not smarter than he is- don't give me that look – but you are much more. You manage to surprise me once in a while, and you can do it to him, too," Sherlock told him, face absolutely serious. "No matter what he says or does – trust me and stay calm."

"I-"

"Trust me. Remember yesterday."

John still looked tentative, something about Sherlock's words seemed so… heavy, important (of course they were about Moriarty, who was an important topic, but still…) and he had a bad feeling deep down in his gut, but of course he remembered the night before, remember Sherlock's words, remembered what they were to each other. And he was certain they could make it out of this just fine.

The boys shared one last look, before pushing the door to the staircase to the Astronomy Tower open.

x

Sherlock's body climbed the stairs, together with John next to him, but his mind was working, had been ever since John left that night.

He knew all of this seemed too quick for John, as if Moriarty was rushing things, but Sherlock and he had been playing this game for almost six years. The fact that Moriarty was now pushing if forward faster might have come surprising for John, but not for him.

He was prepared, had realized long ago how this day would end. Moriarty had made the same mistake as Sherlock – to mistake love and affection for a defect found in the losing side, but the difference between himself and Jim was that he had realized that it was in fact quite different.

Love made one easy to manipulate, yes, but it also could empower.

It was the time to end this game, this great game, now. And Sherlock was ready. He just dreaded the cost.

X

He waited for them at the very top of the tower, leaning against the balustrade and overlooking the grounds, but turning his head when they walked in. Neither of them had seen him since his departure in their Fourth Year and while everyone had changed over the past two years, with puberty on full roll, the change with Moriarty was disturbingly extreme.

Gone was the small, pale, insecure boy. He was replaced by a teen with cold, hard eyes, a determined look on his face and John reckoned he was about 5ft 10 tall and that meant he was taller than John now, although still no match for Sherlock's 6 ft. Moriarty was dressed in a suit and somehow that looked more dangerous than if he had worn a traditional Wizard cloak.

"Hi boys!" He called out then, voice still high-pitched, although it didn't quite match the rest of his appearance now and made him sound a bit mad. "Good to see you again."

"Not really," John told him, staying serious and not lowering his wand, unlike Sherlock, who looked far more at ease – too much for John's liking.

"Tsk, I have to say, I'm a bit disappointed, Sherlock," Moriarty told the Slytherin with a disapproving look towards John, but completely ignoring the Gryffindor's input. "You're still keeping him around? Well… dogs are loyal, I suppose…"

That was enough for John. He told himself he was not getting worked up about Moriarty's words and simply doing it now so their opponent wouldn't get the chance to attack first, but yes, part of him wanted Moriarty to shut up. So all he did was call out "Duck!" to Sherlock, before firing off two well-aimed Stunning Spells that would've knocked out Moriarty hadn't he quickly conjured up a shield to reflect them.

John easily avoided the backfiring spells and attacked again, feeling some satisfaction at Moriarty's annoyed expression. The pale boy attacked back sometimes, but not half as good as John did, and although he stood his ground, he didn't manage to even come close to hurting John.

Sherlock had retreated to somewhere behind the Gryffindor and John was glad he wasn't in the line of fire anymore. The red and green and blue lights and sparks flashed between the duelists for a good five minutes now and John felt more secure, knowing that if the fight took any longer, Moriarty would make a mistake – he might be a genius, but John was the better duelist by far.

And that was when the Body-Bind-Curse hit his back.

"Well, that's a surprise," Moriarty stated, still panting a bit, but already regaining his posture, putting the nonchalant mask back on. "Didn't think you had it in you."

"You should have seen it coming. You couldn't have thought I would let it end like this," Sherlock answered and it was a change to the uncharacteristically silence he'd displayed before. However, John was busy with fighting the curse and trying to understand what was going on. He wanted to scream at Sherlock what this was all about, what was going, why he'd cursed him, but he couldn't move a single muscle.

Moriarty laughed out loud, glee in his eyes. "Oh, that's just wonderful."

Sherlock, too, allowed himself a smile – a genuine one, how John noticed with some horror – but it was quickly wiped off when Moriarty once again turned to being serious and narrowed his eyes before hissing: "Do you really think I'm that stupid? I've got people watching, so you should think carefully about whatever it is you plan on. One word and…" He grinned, although there was nothing pleasant about it this time.

"Of course." Sherlock seemed unfazed.

"Great!" Jim clapped his hands, suddenly happy again and John, while still fighting with all his power against the Curse, was increasingly unsettled by the mood swings. Jim was simply mad as a hatter, there was no other way to say it.

"Now, I take it you've worked out my influence on your life over the past few years by now?"

Of course this was the continuation of the conversation Sherlock and Jim had started almost three years ago in the dungeons, where Jim had revealed his true personality, shortly before John's and Sherlock's big fight, but John didn't knew this and only followed the conversation with some effort.

"Easy," Sherlock replied, crossed his hands behind his back and elaborated: "You hired the Squib simply because he was related – though deleted from the family tree – to me. That you hired and helped Greyback into Hogwarts is fairly obvious, too, although he only recognized your smell and not your face, which leads me to how you managed to appear in the Chamber of Secrets without being recognized by us – you used Ageing Potion and faced Greyback, as well as us, in your grown-up body."

"Good boy," Moriarty chuckled. "Go on."

"Powers' death? You ordered it because he saw you take the ageing potion. You also knocked out Molly Hooper when we sent you back for help with Greyback." Sherlock looked smug at his own deductions. "But back to the Chamber of Secrets. You tricked – or more likely, cursed – Alec Woodlight into doing the dirty work. Also, despite making everyone believe it, you're not Muggle-born, but heir of Slytherin and therefore a Parseltongue. You're not an elitist, though, and you never planned on killing 'Mudbloods', how you put it back in the Chamber – it was simply a convenient way to get rid of John. However, he surprised both of _us_-"

John felt a cold shiver running down his spine at Sherlock's use of 'us'.

"-but mostly you. How's Sebastian feeling?"

_Sebastian?_

"Hurt in his pride, mostly," Moriarty replied. "And yes, your little watchdog proved to be tougher than I had estimated, but I won't make the same mistake twice."

Sherlock simply smiled.

And somehow, Moriarty seemed to understand what he was implying, because his face fell considerably and he sounded more threatening than before when he said: "So you really made up your mind?"

"Obviously."

Jim sighed and fixed his eyes on Sherlock, big, dark eyes that looked very puppy-like now. "But we could be so much more together! All the possibilities! Your mind and mine!"

"I don't need a second mind." Sherlock's face was bare of any emotion.

"_Yes, you think you need a heart-"_ Moriarty spat out the words as if they were vomit and the mad look was back on his face. "But I promised you I would burn it out of you!"

"You won't." Sherlock raised his wand.

"Oh, I think I will. But you need to go first." The ease with that Moriarty said that horrified John even more and he struggled more than ever against the Curse petrifying his body. He didn't understand why Sherlock had petrified him and why he didn't release him so he could help, but that didn't stop him from concentrating all his willpower on a non-verbal spell to release himself from the Body Bind.

Sherlock had always been quick. With thinking, with moving, and with magic. But this time, Moriarty was quicker and before the Slytherin could react, the smaller boy had disarmed him and had him pressed up against the balustrade, his body pressed close into Sherlock's.

"You owe me, Sherlock. I've created a game for you, allowed you to play for six years – if you're not with me, you can't be allowed to live."

Sherlock panted heavily, but with a sudden, fierce movement, he switched himself around with Moriarty and now they were both half-leaning over the balustrade, clinging to each other like a twisted version of a romantic couple. Moriarty seemed to realize something now, and for a moment, his mouth formed a perfect little 'o' before he spoke, voice high and full of wonder.

"_You owe me._" He looked sad now. "You know there's no other way."

All the horror and desperation that was piling up in John was getting too much at that sight and with an intense internal scream, he finally managed the counter-course for the body-bind and launched forward, yelling "Stupefy!"

However, the second he met Sherlock's eyes, he knew it was in vain.

Time seemed to stand still for a moment, John frozen mid-step, Moriarty wearing a mix of surprise and sadness and Sherlock, arms wound tightly around his nemesis, stared right into John's eyes.

_I'm sorry,_ the look said. _I knew it was going to end this way. There's no other way. I have to. I love you._

_Goodbye._

And then time took up its normal pace again, Sherlock closed his eyes and he and the evil genius toppled over the edge of the balustrade, John's Stunning Spell hitting Moriarty in the head, but it was too late already.

Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty were falling.

X

A spray of blood hit his face when John's Stunning Spell knocked Jim's head back and against the stone wall of the tower and from the way Moriarty's body went still, Sherlock knew he was dead instantly.

He kept his eyes closed, however, the image of John still burnt into his mind.

The air rushed around him, a loud howl. Freedom.

X

No-one saw how Moriarty and Sherlock plummeted into the ground because at that exact moment, Rebecca managed to find the way out of the castle and pushed the doors open. It took everyone ten seconds to realize that someone else had made it out of the tower and then the whole world was upside-down in a confused, hectic haze.

There was a rush when staff, students and Ministry wizards ran over to the life-less bodies on the ground.

From the top of the tower, John stared down, watched how some Healers carried Sherlock away, and for a moment, the urge to jump, too, became overbearing. He stood at the edge, wind blowing around him, and he knew that only one small step would make all of this pain, all of this grief end. One small step, and it would be over.

But then there was a loud bang, tiny arms wound themselves around his leg and he was teleported away. Side-by-side-apparition, one of the House Elves had taken him down because McGonagall had told her so, and John simply collapsed on the ground as they carried Sherlock's body away on a stretcher, a cloak mercifully draped over his broken body, but one hand dangling down, lifeless.

John reached out unconsciously and his hand stayed in the air even after Sherlock's body was hidden behind people. That was when he broke down completely.

He didn't remember anything of the rest of the day. He didn't remember being carried to the Hospital Wing, didn't remember the following days and he didn't attend Sherlock's funeral. He simply couldn't.

Mycroft visited and told him that Moriarty was dead, that John's Stunning Spell had knocked his head against the wall of the Astronomy Tower before the fall, and that Sherlock was being buried in the middle of the Forbidden Forest since he wasn't part of the Holmes Family anymore. It was fitting, somehow, putting Sherlock's body to the one place where all sorts of dangerous creatures would watch over him. Surrounded by adventure, even in his death. But John couldn't think these thoughts and he couldn't bring himself to care. He just sat in the Room of Requirement where he'd fled to so Mycroft couldn't find him, and looked out of the window, the Astronomy Tower mercifully hidden from his view.

Without Sherlock and his mind, the Room of Requirement was empty, sparse, but it matched John's inner life and the dead look in his eyes perfectly. Everyone was glad that at least John made it out of the third task alive, but Greg, who kept an close eye on him ever since, knew that John died with Sherlock that day.

Rebecca had won officially, but al celebrations were cancelled and she, too, grieved like everyone else for the Slytherin that had fallen to his death. The foreign students left early, startled and shocked and they left behind a grieving school. Of course not many people had liked Sherlock, but seeing him dead was another thing. Worse was seeing John – whom they all knew had been inseparable from Sherlock – completely loose it again.

They all remembered the way the Gryffindor was after his fight with Sherlock in the Fourth Year, how it got worse after his parents had been attacked – all Moriarty's fault, how Mycroft made sure the Ministry told everyone – but John had been okay again suddenly, better, with Sherlock's help. What was left now was the shell of a boy who had finally lost everything worth living for in his life.

During the endless hours in the Room of Requirement, John tried to make himself care about the letters he got – from Mycroft, telling him he made sure everyone learned about Moriarty's evilness, from Harriet, telling him to come home to her, again from Mycroft, telling him he didn't need to worry about money since everything Sherlock had owned was being transferred to John's Gringotts vault.

When it all got too much, John packed his stuff in the middle of the night.

He dragged his trunk to the edge of the Forbidden Forest, turned into his dogform and disappeared between the trees. For a long time that night, the howling of an animal sounded over the grounds and everyone who heard it felt incredibly sad all of the sudden.

At some point in the night, John briefly turned back into a human and stared at the small black gravestone.

"You knew it, didn't you? The night before the Third Task. You knew Moriarty wouldn't let go before one of you was dead. I just… I don't understand why you had to die with him. How is that fair, Sherlock? How is it fair to just leave me behind? I could've fought with you. Like I always did."

His voice broke and he clenched his fist, willing the words that had waited inside to come out now.

"You told me you would hurt me, and I didn't mind, because you also said you would be there to pick up the pieces again!" Angry tears burnt in his eyes, but he wiped them away. "You promised me!"

The gravestone didn't answer, obviously, and only now John allowed his tears to flow for a while. Finally, when the anger had ebbed away, he dried the tear marks on his cheek and took a deep breath. "All I ask of you is one last miracle. _Don't. Be. Dead_. D'you hear me? There's no-one who could do that, but you. I know you can, and you promised so- do it for me. Come back to me." And, after a long silence of rushing trees and the sounds of the nightly Forest: "I need you."

After that, John turned back into his dogform, ignored the smell of Sherlock that seemed so strong in his memory that he could smell him even here, in the middle of the Forbidden Forest, and turned away, not looking back.

Long after John was gone, the tall figure that had been standing there all along remained hidden between the trees, fighting back the urge to call out. It was not the time yet. He left.

* * *

_I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry._

_Moriarty is dead, and he and Sherlock fell together. The end. This is my design ;D_


	20. Epilogue

In his dreams, he fell, over and over again. Only that in his dreams, he hit the ground, felt his skull cracking open, felt his bones breaking.

He'd never been able to remember his dreams before, but now they came every night, and although he knew they were ridiculous, they left him with a thumping heart and in feral panic.

Sherlock realized quickly that during those nights, he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep, no matter how much his body needed it, but he couldn't calm down until he spoke out the words that explained what had happened. He imagined John with him, imagined the Gryffindor being mad at him, but listening, because he always listened, and Sherlock would just _explain_ it to him and it would be_ fine_.

"Mycroft and I had it planned all along. Moriarty wouldn't allow me to live if I didn't accept his offer, but I knew I had to take him with me." John would listen with wide eyes, fists clenched angrily. "The wizards that attacked you and your family back in summer – one of them was Sebastian Moran-" at that part, John would gasp, because Moran still went to school with them, hell, even had boarded in one room with Sherlock – "who took an ageing potion, as well. He had orders to take you and me out, in case Moriarty died and I survived."

John would protest now, would claim he'd been able to take on Moran, but Sherlock would simply ignore that protest and continue: "Smooch, our House Elf, had always been most loyal to Mycroft and although I was erased from the family tree, I'm still a Holmes in blood." Realization would start to appear in John's eyes, because of course he knew that House Elves were the only creatures able to apparate and disapparated on Hogwarts grounds. "Mycroft got his hands on an invisibility cloak, and we made Polyjuice Potion with some of my hair. We gave it to a dying old wizard – don't give me that look, John, he was dying of a natural cause and had always been fond of Mycroft – that's the part that's harder to understand, in my opinion – and he took the Potion shortly before dying. Smooch was waiting with 'my body' in sight of the castle and when I fell, she apparated mid-air, dropped 'my body' and disapparated with me, hidden under the invisibility cloak. No one noticed, because Rebecca made it out of the castle at the exact same time."

In Sherlock's imagination, John would be silent for a long while after that, until he either punched him, kissed him or shouted at him – Sherlock preferred the second outcome, but the other two were more likely – and they could go back to normal.

Many a night, Sherlock sat on his bed like that, having this conversation with an imaginary John, because hearing the words out loud calmed him down. At the end, he was always alright again, knowing that it was all for the best, so that John was safe, and he could concentrate on his most important task again – taking out Moran.

X

He'd re-taken his position as 'corpse' for the funeral, because the dead old man had been taken away to be buried with his family – _sentiment, urgh_ – and in the unlikely case that someone would open the coffin, it was of importance that Sherlock's 'body' was inside. Smooch had sat in the coffin with him, hidden underneath the Invisibility cloak, but as predicted, no one had tried to open the coffin.

John hadn't even been there, Mycroft told him later, and although Sherlock knew it wasn't because John hated him now, he felt a pang in his chest. He was glad that he stayed around for a while, though, because at some point, John did show up at his grave.

The genius, usually able to control himself amazingly well, had a hard time staying hidden. Surprisingly, it hurt him to see John hurt.

Well, maybe it wasn't that surprising after all, considering he'd gone half-mad when John was about to die from basilisk venom.

When the Gryffindor finally left, Sherlock couldn't help but say to the empty forest: "I'll be back, John. I promise." So much for sentiment. Then, he left, too.

X

Disapparating once John was outside of Hogwarts was the first step. And he landed in Diagon Alley, which was simply the first thing that had come to his mind. It was amazing that he hadn't ended up splinching some body part or the other since he hadn't really concentrated on the D for Destination. But now he was in Diagon Alley, in one piece, and when he was actually standing there, he realized he had no idea what to do next.

However, once he noticed the witch in simple dress robes coming towards him, piece of parchment and Self-Writing Quill in her hands, he immediately recognized her as Mycroft's assistant and fled inside the Leaky Cauldron.

Tom, like basically everyone else in the Wizarding World, obviously knew about Sherlock and Moriarty by now – courtesy of Mycroft and the Daily Telegraph – and of course he recognized John. Without having to do any talking, he led John upstairs and mercifully gave him a room at the end of the corridor, way past the room John and Sherlock had shared only one summer ago-

The tightness in John's throat came back when he realized how happy they'd been, running around London, sharing a room, a bed at night-

The tears were back in his eyes and he quickly wiped them away while Tom pretended he hadn't seen them. John nevertheless disappeared inside his room quickly, shutting off the outside world.

Over the course of the following weeks, John mostly stayed inside or apparated away to the forest and fields way behind Holmes Manor, where he'd been walking with Sherlock the day the Slytherin's family had found out about them. It was quiet and peaceful there and John could scream out his anger, roam the fields as a dog, could curse, mutter, scream – whatever form of communication he needed with Sherlock.

Sherlock, who'd simply left him. Hell, who'd cursed him so he wouldn't intervene. Who'd simply gone and thrown himself off the Astronomy Tower.

Sherlock, whom John needed, wanted. Because they were lovers and best friends. And now John was drifting, like a leaf in the wind, because his other half, the person who kept him grounded, whom he orbited, was gone.

X

Moran had no reason to believe that Sherlock wasn't dead, but that didn't mean he didn't keep a close eye on John. Sherlock knew that, but he wasn't scared for John, because the other boy showed no sign of suspecting anything weird about the Fall. And as long as John was heartbroken, John was safe.

X

John didn't realize how time passed – while being overly aware of it at the same time.

He didn't know what day it was, or what month, and yet he counted every single day since Sherlock had hit the ground. 102.

However, he was startled from his drifting when the annual Hogwarts letter arrived, together with the booklist and information about the upcoming N.E.W.T.s. And since he didn't know what to do with himself, he grabbed the shopping list and slowly made his way down Diagon Alley to Flourish and Blotts, eyes fixed on the ground.

Some people tentatively called out his name, but he ignored them just like he had ignored Greg's, Mycroft's and everyone else's attempts of contact, and only lifted his head when he was tucked away safely in a dim-lit corner of the book shop, between high shelves.

He hadn't even counted on being allowed to the Seventh Year since he hadn't taken any exams at the end of the Sixth Year but then he realized there was no testing after Year 6, seeing as the N.E.W.T. exams had to be sat at the end of Year 7. Obviously he was still allowed back despite missing the last four weeks of classes.

Sighing, he took up his book list. He didn't feel like it at all, but he probably should go back to Hogwarts after the summer holidays – it wasn't like he was doing anything with his life and maybe… maybe the distraction would help with Sh-

_Oh. So today was one of these days when even thinking the name made him choke up. Great._

Clenching his fists, he took a few breaths before starting to go through the shelves in search for a few more books he needed. One book in particular, a heavy tome about medical plants found in the Lochs of Ireland, proved very resistant to John's pulls and when he clenched his teeth and gave it another firm tug, it sprung free but buried the poor Gryffindor under an avalanche of paper and leather.

For a few moments, he only saw stars, but when he sat up with a groan and pushed books from his chest, his eyes fell on one book in particular. It had landed on its back and flipped open on an illustrated page that John recognized. It was the same book he'd gotten from Alec for Christmas years ago – the one about legendary magical objects. He hadn't thought of it in years, but now that he saw the double page with a black-and-white ink painting, something in the back of his mind popped up.

He leaned in closer, picked up the book, and studied the picture. It was the shadow of a skeleton that was holding something round between two boney fingers – a stone, small, black and with the engraved Deathly Hallows symbol – the Resurrection Stone.

But the picture wasn't what John thought of when he thought of the stone – he'd seen it somewhere else. _He'd had it in his hands before._

When some employees made their way up the stairs and to the pile of books on the ground, they didn't see John anymore and only one of them caught sight of a boy with blond hair storming out of the shop as if he'd seen the Devil in person. The book with the page about the Resurrection Stone remained on the ground, abandoned and yet having had a great impact.

X

John dashed through Diagon Alley, not caring about whom he knocked over on his way. He almost ran into a cart full of baby kneazels, that hissed at him menacingly but he didn't stop and simply ran faster. Halfway through, he realized he would be faster if he was shorter, so he changed into his dogform mid-run, scaring some older witches to death as he passed and then he was at the brick wall leading to the Leaky Cauldron.

Lucky for him, a family was just passing through and he jumped on some barrels before literally leaping over their heads, a bolt of sandy fur and flapping tongue. He ignored the calls and protests of several wizards and witches he almost ran into and then he was up the stairs, changing back into his human form as fast as possible before bursting through the door to his room.

His trunk was leaning in one corner of the room, completely unobtrusive, and John opened it with a flick of his wand, sending clothes, books, quills and parchment from the past six years all over the room, raining down on him while he fell to his knees and started going through the stuff that had collected on the bottom of the trunk.

He cursed and pulled his hand back when he cut himself on the shard of the blue lens Sherlock had broken in their Third Year, but ignored the pain and blood in favour of continuing to rummage through his things. He let out a triumphant cry when his fingers closed around the cool, smooth object.

_Apparently Harry Potter lost the Stone of Resurrection somewhere in there. Imagine how great it would be if we found it!"_

_"He lost the what?"_

_"The Resurrection Stone – one of the three Deathly Hallows. It brings back the shadows of dead people."_

John felt a mixture between amazement and disbelief – he had been in the possession of the Resurrection Stone for almost seven years and hadn't even realized it!

The Stone looked just so… unimpressive. It was not big, but not small either. It was black, yes, and when John tilted it a bit, he saw the symbol of the Deathly Hallows, the same symbol he'd seen in the book just minutes before, engraved.

His heart beat faster and faster now and his mouth felt dry with the sudden realization that this was it.

He could… he could talk to Sherlock if he only turned the stone in his hands three times.

According to tale, the second of the Peverell brothers killed himself out of grief because he brought back the love of his life and she wasn't really there.

But John needed to know. He needed to see Sherlock, talk to Sherlock, see him one last time more than he needed air.

And so he turned the stone.

X

Nothing happened.

No ghosty Sherlock appeared.

However, who did appear was John's grandma Nancy, who smiled at him somehow sadly and he was so startled that he scrambled backwards and let the stone slip out of his hands, breaking skin contact and therefore causing his grandma to vanish.

For a whole minute, John stared at the spot where she had appeared. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears, his mouth was dry and his vision was somehow tunneled and bizarre and then something hot ran down his cheeks and he realized he was crying.

Because the Resurrection Stone worked.

But Sherlock didn't show up. Which could only mean one thing.

_Sherlock was alive._

X

Sherlock knew that John knew when he heard Mycroft's report on what John was up to. And since John knew, it was likely that Moran would get suspicious.

"My brilliant John. Watch out."

Moran hadn't returned to school, while John had, but that didn't mean the former Slytherin wasn't planning. He didn't know that Sherlock was hunting him, but as soon as he realized, he wouldn't wait to kill John. So Sherlock had to be smarter.

He smiled. Being smart was what he did best, after all.

X

_(One year and 14 days later)_

"Are you sure you want to tag along? It's probably nothing, but they send Aurors-in-spe to investigate every boring bit," Greg asked, eyeing John intently.

It had been a surprise to see John back at the Hogwarts express and at first, neither of his friends had been sure what was going on, because while their fellow Gryffindor still looked pale and had dark shadows under his eyes, the almost tangible sadness was gone, or better: replaced with something Greg could only call determinedness.

He felt a bit left out, true, because John never even attempted to explain to him what had happened with Sherlock, or what was going on with him at the moment, but then again, it felt so good to have John back that Greg was content with that.

Within two weeks, John was back at the top of the class, was an admired Prefect and was made Captain of the Quidditch Team, which he led to one victory after the other. He participated in the usual stuff, like sitting together at the fire in the evenings, or going to Hogsmeade, and he seemed to have no problems if someone mentioned Sherlock then – as long as they didn't ask about the Fall – but Greg saw him sneak out every night, to the library or outside, into the Forbidden Forest.

However, if that was John's way of coping, who was he to call him out on that?

In the end, Gryffindor had won the Quidditch Cup, they had sat through their N.E.W.T.s, Greg doing surprisingly well and getting accepted at the Ministry to become an Auror, while John confidently finished his N.E.W.T.s and immediately took up the offer to become a Healer at St. Mungo's. The Seventh Years left Hogwarts at the end of the term the way they had entered it for the first time, seven years ago – on the boats; and then they were officially done with school.

Greg's work had begun two weeks before John's and when there had been reports of a wild werewolf sighting by an old witch from Hogsmeade that needed to be "investigated" – everyone at the office laughed, because the witch was known to be overreacting and a wild werewolf in that area hadn't been sighted since Greyback – they send their youngest member, Greg.

And because Greg didn't want to spend a night all by himself, because that was boring (and maybe, just in case, someone with werewolf experience and the ability to turn into a dog would come in handy) he'd told John about it, who immediately agreed to tag along.

As the full moon slowly crept up the night sky, the two boys had finished their patrol through the village and were standing at the edge of the forest leading up to the Shrieking Shack, blinking into the semi-darkness. There had been no howling or any other sound indicating werewolf activity and besides the old witch, no one could confirm any sightings, but since they had to stay out all night anyways, John offered: "I can go through the forest for a while, check it out in dogform. If something happens, I'll send you a Patronus."

Not that he'd been able to produce one since the Fall. But Greg didn't need to know that.

The young Auror nodded, though, and send John a thankful look. "Alright. I'll walk the edge of the Forest then."

John transformed quickly and easily made his way between the trees, his eyes almost useless, but his nose telling him everything he needed to know. It was a long way from the Shrieking Shack to the part of the Forbidden Forest where Sherlock's grave was, but John fell into a light jog and, watching out half-heartedly for anything unusual, started his journey.

X

The transformation was incredibly painful, and more painful than it had ever been back when he was still 'alive'. Mycroft had specialists, yes, the best Healers and Potioneers in the Wizarding World, and they were of course able to brew the Wolfsbane Potion, but it didn't feel right and while he stayed clear in his mind, for the first time in his life since the infection, he dreaded the monthly change.

He had tried not taking the Potion, determined to simply overcome the beast in his mind by sheer willpower but that hadn't gone exactly the way he'd planned on…

Sherlock made a face (well, as far as that was possible when you looked like a wolf) at the memory of last month. Luckily, he'd simply roamed the woods without attacking someone, but apparently an old witch from the village had seen him.

Now he needed to be extra careful – the Ministry had send an Auror, according to Mycroft, and Moran would be extremely carefully now. Well, Sherlock would be, too – and he was at home in these woods, they had been his home for almost a year now.

A grin spread on his face, grotesquely distorted by his werewolf features.

X

It was about two in the morning, and John had reached Sherlock's grave. The black headstone looked just as he'd left him four weeks ago, and once again, Sherlock's scent was overwhelming around here. John had learned to ignore it, though – it was probably a psychological thing. Sherlock would've known. He could've explained it. Smell hallucinations, probably.

However, another smell came drifting into John's nose and he sniffed the air, turning his small furry head from side to side until he could be sure.

There was a human, not too far away. And it wasn't Greg.

X

Sherlock knew that Moran knew he was there. That was why Moran had come back to Hogsmeade after all – to prepare to kill John, since Sherlock clearly wasn't dead. However, Moran hadn't known that Sherlock was a werewolf and only panicked when he realized exactly that.

Moran had come into the woods to wait for John, to finish him, because he'd found out that Sherlock had survived. And Sebastian Moran had his orders. Precisely, to kill John Watson if Sherlock survived and Moriarty didn't.

Sherlock knew this. That's why he'd made sure Moran would get proof that he was still alive, two days earlier. Moran had instantly apparated to Hogsmeade to set up a trap, waiting for John who visited Sherlock's grave regularly. And Sherlock had planned on that.

However, Moran wasn't stupid, he knew Sherlock was out there, too, and when he realized that the genius was a werewolf, and that he, the hunter, was being hunted, he didn't try to fight but started to run to get off the school grounds so he could disapparate.

Sherlock's paws thrummed on the ground, a steady staccato.

X

John was getting close now, he could hear the hasty footsteps of the human, could smell him clearly now, although he couldn't identify him.

And then the soft night breeze changed its direction and another smell drifted into his sensitive nose. A smell that stopped him in his tracks, so abruptly that he toppled over and rolled through the dirt, wincing in pain and surprise. Because it _couldn't be._ And yet…

X

He was so close to Moran now that he could almost reach him. It would only take another few meters and then-

The wind changed its direction, ruffling through the thick fur on his back and he heard _him_ before he saw or smelled him. The surprised wince. And then the familiar smell.

Moran used that moment to fire off a hex over his shoulder, but despite him being an excellent marksman, he missed because he was still running and Sherlock shook his head to clear it. A few more meters.

X

John pushed his small dog body to its limits. Excitement, hope, desperation – all of that rushed through him, making him run faster than he had ever before.

Out of the darkness, a powerful hex whooshed past, too high to hit him, but he yapped in alarm. And then the human came in sight and with the human, the large figure of a werewolf, mid-jump.

X

Bones broke so easily when you were a 90-kilogram-heavy werewolf against a human.

Moran's neck made a satisfying cracking sound before he slumped to the ground.

X

John's eyes were trained on the yellow eyes of the werewolf.

The werewolf stared back, still sitting on the broken body of the human he'd killed.

X

Never in his life had Sherlock wanted the night to end more than right now. Because he was caught in the body of a beast, while John stared at him from bright blue eyes.

X

He was real. Of course he was. John's dog nose was never wrong. He knew the scent, would've been able to find and identify it, even if there were hundreds of other people around. But he needed more proof, needed to touch him, see him, talk to him.

Eyes not leaving the werewolf, John turned back into his human body. He stood there for a moment, small, lonely in the dark forest. Part of another world, all of the sudden. Pale in the moonlight, short, human.

And then he reached out, crossed the distance to the beast and let his fingers hover in front of the werewolf's face, inches away from touching him.

"…Sherlock."

He'd dreamt about this. When he thought Sherlock was dead, he'd hallucinated him everywhere, seeing him sitting or standing in a corner of the room, hearing him whisper deductions in his ear. Kissing him, in his dreams. And after he realized that Sherlock was still alive, that hadn't changed. But every time he had reached out before, fingertips inches away from him, the taller boy had vanished into thin air.

_But this time, you could smell him. He killed someone. He is _here.

His mind knew it. But his heart couldn't believe it.

But then the werewolf moved, inching his head forwards, nudging it into John's outstretched fingers and oh there was fur, soft, warm fur and a body and John could feel him and-

John fell to his knees, burying his face into the fur of Sherlock's neck while his arms closed around the werewolf's body, holding him close.

And he could feel Sherlock's helplessness, his annoyance with himself, because he couldn't speak, was trapped in this body until the sun rose, but John didn't care and simply inhaled the musky scent of the wolf and held him close.

X

In the end – well, the morning – Sherlock changed back into his human body while he was still in John's arms. They had sat on the ground for three hours, neither moving an inch, and when the shivers started and his bones started to twist, break and move, he held back the whimpers and simply let the disease go its way.

John looked up when he had his face buried in the crook of a soft, pale neck instead of dark, glossy fur and Sherlock's breath hitched when the so familiar, dearly missed eyes of John found his own silver ones now.

"You're back."

There was only one thing to reply.

"I promised."

X

_(19 years later)_

Forgiving him was not easy, Sherlock had anticipated that, and, like predicted, there was no kissing involved when he told John his story. But then again, there was also no punching, so Sherlock supposed that was a step into the right direction.

It was hard readjusting to each other again, because no matter how much they had missed each other, they'd been separated for over a year. John had a job now, he was becoming a Healer, and Sherlock – well, Sherlock had been 'dead', which meant he needed to be re-introduced to world properly.

But when it came to where Sherlock would be living, there was no hesitation from either of the boys. 221B Baker Street awaited them with open arms, and they moved in within a day.

Slowly, John stopped panicking whenever he came home and didn't find Sherlock, who'd once again left without leaving a note regarding where he went. And Sherlock learnt that if he only asked John, the other boy never declined anything, happily accompanying him on the most dangerous adventures and patching him up when the need was there.

John became a Healer, Sherlock the world's only consulting detective and although he never used magic to solve any cases, the Muggles with whom he worked always thought there was something… magical about the way he made his deductions.

Sherlock was no pirate but John had nevertheless become his doctor, like he had promised 32 years ago.

All was well.

* * *

_So this is it. I want to thank all of you for sticking with me until the very end, to borrow JKR's words for one last time._  
_**DISCLAIMER:** The last sentence belongs to JKR, as do Hogwarts and the Wizarding World, while Sherlock and the others belong to ACD and the BBC. I gain no profit of this story and it's just for entertainment._

_You have been wonderful readers and I hope to have you sticking around - my tumblr is **hanna-notmontana**, so come and talk to me! I don't bite._  
**_Thank you for all you've done and said. DFTBA and love always, Hanna._**

* * *

_There's no longer story planned for the near future, but I'm currently working on a (very long) demon!lock oneshot, so if you're interested, just stick around :)_

* * *

_Also, **I still need cover art** for this. Draw, you talented people. Or photoshop. Or suggest something - remember, you can't post links in the reviews or PMs. :)  
_


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